


(Loki X Reader) Girl With The Gold Earring

by LVE32



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Norse Religion & Lore, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Norse Religion & Lore, Asgard, Asgard (Marvel), Asgardian Loki (Marvel), Asgardian Reader (Marvel), Body Paint, Boss/Employee Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Established Relationship, Establishing Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feel-good, Feels, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gentle Kissing, House Cleaning, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötnar | Jotuns | Frost Giants (Norse Religion & Lore), Loki (Marvel) Feels, Loki (Marvel) Needs a Hug, Loki is a painter, Long-Term Relationship(s), Love Confessions, Maids, Male-Female Friendship, Marvel Norse Lore, Marvel Universe, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Minor Original Character(s), Morning Cuddles, Mutual Pining, Naked Cuddling, Neck Kissing, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, Original Character(s), Painting, Pining, Pining Loki (Marvel), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Portraits, Pre-Thor (2011), References to Norse Religion & Lore, Romance, Secret Crush, Secret Relationship, Sexual Tension, Shy Loki (Marvel), Slow Romance, Smut, Wordcount: Over 50.000, before thor 1, loki as a painter, loki is an artist, long-ish fic, thor 1, young adult loki and reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 122,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26361577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: The chambers of Loki Odinson have always been off-limits to everyone, including the staff of Asgard Palace---that is until Y/N._____After a brief encounter with the youngest son of Odin, Y/N---a lowly cleaner of the palace---is anonymously promoted to Loki's house-maid, where she learns of his quiet nature and artistic talent. Slowly, their relationship evolves from professional to not-quite-so, when the prince asks Y/N to pose for one of his paintings.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel) & Reader, Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 373
Kudos: 986





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> \- Inspired by---but not very similar to---the book: 'Girl With A Pearl Earring'.  
> \- All of Loki's problems could be solved with his magic, so---in my story---he's a bit less magic. Otherwise, this would be a very short book. Maybe he's still developing his talents? as he's quite young in this; it's set a while before Thor 1.  
> \- I'm not a massive Norse mythology nerd, so I'm using a lot of Google and artistic license :-)

PROLOGUE:

Most kids want to be a prince. Ask any of them. Wear a cool crown, have wealth and power beyond belief, be next in line to the throne---

Correction: Most kids want to be the _firstborn_ prince. The firstborn prince's life is bustling with preparations for the day he'll inherit his father's kingdom, celebrations when he reaches important milestones like returning victorious from his first battle---etcetera. Everyone wants to be him or be with him, party invitations, friends, and potential romantic partners practically throwing themselves his way at every waking moment.

Everyone wants to be the firstborn prince.

No one wants to just be _a_ prince _._ No one wants to watch on from the shadows as their older brother gains popularity, influence, and potential while you slip further and further out of his---and everyone else's---eyeline. No one wants to grow up alongside someone who constantly gets to revel in things anyone born after him will never be a part of.

No one wants to be just a _prince,_ not even the prince himself. The life of a _prince_ is white, tasteless, and as plain as flour. You're too privileged to be considered normal by your peers, and too normal to be considered important by your elders. You just exist in a sort of limbo space between two worlds of which you can never be a part of.

That was Loki's life.

But then he met Y/N. 

__________

No one usually disturbs Y/N as she sleepily slides a damp mop over the steps of Asgard Palace.

That's her job; to clean the entryway, scrub the stairs of footprints until their smooth surface is polished enough to reflect vague outlines of clouds.

Y/N has to do this during the early hours of the morning so the vestibule is ready for its busy day ahead. This means she has to drag herself out of bed before the sun, and trudge outside with various cleaning equipment hanging off her arms, only the moon to light her way. By the time Y/N is finished, the skin of her hands is raw and chapped and from manual labour, and numb from the cold.

She doesn't mind, really. She likes watching the little streams of water run off the step she's sponging at and dribble onto the next one, then the next, and the next. The gold-colour of the staircase shines through the suds, making it look like the steps are melting. She likes being awake for the dawn chorus; creatures declaring that they've survived the night by bursting into vibrant song. And the sunrises. Y/N usually finishes scrubbing just as the sun begins to stain the sky a delicate pastel peach; she takes a seat on the top step and observes as streaks of pink appear and start slicing the horizon to ribbons.

It's also better than her last job. Most jobs are better than her last job; Y/N was hired---originally---by the head cook of the servants quarters; a coarse-looking woman as large as a steam-train and twice as loud. She is called Ylva. Ylva never bothered to learn anyone's names, just barked 'girl' or 'lad' at you from across the room, then, if you failed to hear her over the roaring ovens and boiling pots, she'd throw some kind of vegetable in your direction to get your attention. She liked putting salt in everything until it was as bitter as her personality, hurling orders around to assert dominance, and cleanliness.

In Ylva's kitchen, cleanliness was the paramount concern. Oatmeal for five-hundred servants could burn to a crisp and she wouldn't bat an eye, but may the gods forbid you spill said oatmeal on a shiny countertop or let a drop fall to the spotless floor. Y/N's job was mainly to peel things and then cut various other things, but she spent a lot of time trying to mop up stains before Ylva got wind of them and reacted by blaming it on---and then firing---the closest individual.

Maybe it was this---Y/N's newly implanted instinct for tidiness---that got her promoted to tending to the front steps by the head of house-keeping, and then promoted again soon after that.

She hadn't seen her second promotion coming, literally and figuratively. She'd just finished working her way along the length of the last of the many, many steps, and there it was. Or, rather, there he was.

Just watching her.

He must have been there for some time. Y/N hadn't noticed him approach, although she should have done. He was almost two meters tall and dressed in thin moss-coloured linen; an utterly ineffective shield against the frosty air. 

And he was the Allfather's second-born son, although that thought registered peculiarly late in Y/N's mind. 

It's not that he didn't look like a prince, he just didn't look like a prince of...here. He's the only raven-haired child in a family of blondes. Most males in the realm are stocky and hardened from manual labour, whereas he is lean and lithe, and, despite the year-round onslaught of vibrant midday sun, his skin remains as pale as porcelain. 

He looks like he'd be more comfortable living somewhere where the lakes are frozen-over all year round.

Y/N's grip tightened on her mop's handle as she glanced sideways at him through the corner of her eyes. The grounds of Asgard Palace are so large, many servants go their entire career without actually crossing paths with anyone that owns it. But here one of them is, the youngest prince, just...studying her?

She kept dragging the head of the mop back and forth over the same spot, wondering whether she should greet him, or if it was, in fact, rude to speak to a prince before he'd spoken to you first.

He's so tall, his broad shoulders the only give-away that he hasn't been physically stretched out. Y/N knows the prince and her are roughly the same age, and yet she feels like a child under his gaze. His head was tilted curiously to the side but only by such a small amount you wouldn't be able to tell had you not been staring intently at him for some time. Which Y/N had been inadvertently doing. She liked the triangle shape of his torso and the smooth point of his nose.

Y/N had pushed the mop into its bucket then slopped it at her feet three times before she made up her mind that she'd have to say something. The prince's steady, undivided attention was putting her off her work.

And, for some reason, she didn't want him to feel he was being ignored.

Mind made up about how she was to proceed, Y/N sucked in a lungful of the brisk, early morning air and cleared her throat, her breath condensing before her in a little plume of mist. She stood properly, no longer bent over her task, and propped herself up with the handle of her mop.

This seemed to wake the man from some kind of stupor and he realised he was being observed. He straightened the long column of his spine politely and fractionally inclining his pointy chin in a nod of greeting. He didn't smile, but Y/N dared a glance at his eyes and saw a kindness there.

She wondered if she should curtsy.

Before she could do so, or think of some kind of conversation starter, he handed some words to her:

"Are you cold?"

Y/N blinked. Yes, she is cold. She could barely remember a time when she wasn't cold, at least a little bit. She has often considered purchasing a coat from the market on one of her days off, but the price tags make her queasy. She sends most of her wages back to her family on the other side of the kingdom so that they may have meat at dinner and keep the fire well stoked. Knowing they are comfortable is worth the light shivers she endures during the few bleak hours pre-sunrise.

Why does the youngest son of the Allfather care if Y/N is cold?

Her surprise must have been written all over her chill-bitten face because the prince took a step closer and said, voice soft and quiet like a breeze through autumn leaves:

"Let me see your hands."

There was a pause while Y/N's brain processed his order. She looked left and then right, checking for observers. Someone was bound to scold her for talking to the prince, even though he'd been the one that had spoken to her.

She realised that he was still watching her, waiting, and all she was doing was giving him a dazed, vacant look back. Scrambling to stuff the mop handle under one arm, Y/N's stomach twisted in on itself as she held out both her hands as if shyly presenting the prince with an imaginary gift.

Loki didn't touch her, both of his slender arms remained neatly folded behind his back; as if trying to show Y/N that he came in peace. He just regarded the tips of Y/N's fingers, his eyes sliding along the crease-lines of her exposed palms.

Y/N felt strangely naked.

When he was satisfied, or had seen whatever it was he'd wanted to see, he gave another curt little nod. "Thank you. You may get back to your work." And with that he turned and started walking towards the palace, carefully skirting around the damp patches of the steps Y/N had worked so hard to clean.

She watched him leave with poorly-hidden fascination, even though she knew doing so was risking dismissal if she was caught, her eyes following him right until the palace doors slid silently closed after engulfing his narrow figure.

...

That had been five months ago.

Y/N reached the logical conclusion that The Youngest Prince had been responsible for her second promotion because two strange things don't usually happen so close together without being---somehow---related. One day she was approached by Loki Odinson on the palace steps, the next she was sought out by the head of housekeeping and told that she had a new job---tidying his chambers.

Alfdis---a woman so wrinkled it looked as though she'd been thoroughly wrung out---had caught Y/N at the mess hall, cupping a bowl of oatmeal in her cracked hands. Y/N had five minutes before she planned to fetch frigid water from the well for her bucket, and she was going to use every available second to try to heat her skin cells up as much as possible in preparation.

"Y/N," the head housekeeper started, eyeing the bench Y/N was perched on as if wondering if it was worth lowering her creaking bones onto it. She decided it wasn't, and remained standing.

Even though one of them was sitting, Y/N and the head housekeeper were essentially eye level.

"Rather than cleaning the steps as you usually do, you are to proceed to the chambers on the sixteenth floor, at the far North side of the building," she sounded puzzled, as if her own instructions confused her.

They must have come from a higher power, Y/N contemplated. She furrowed her brow.

Despite being at least three generations older than the majority of her underlings, Alfdis is a good-natured, relatable woman if ever there was one, so Y/N felt comfortable sputtering: "What?"

Alfdis' bony little shoulders rose and fell in a tired shrug. She's up and about, doing her duties before Y/N, and she wouldn't get to go back to bed until the moon rises once again. "You are no longer stationed on step-cleaning duty, that's all I can tell you. You are to clean the youngest prince's chambers from now on." She placed a fragile hand on Y/N's shoulder in a motherly way that suddenly made Y/N homesick. "I need not explain to you what a privilege this is."

"But I'm not a housemaid. I worked in the kitchens and then---"

"Well, you are a housemaid now," Alfdis declared, still with that bemused tone. She oversees all housekeepers, kitchen staff, groundsmen---etcetera---and yet it is widely understood that even she is not allowed to enter The Youngest Prince's chambers. He cleans them himself, always has. It is tradition to scare new, younger staff by telling tales of the horrors the prince keeps locked up in his rooms, stories about the reasons for them being off-limits to all but himself.

Y/N hadn't believed any of it.

"Am I to be working alone?" As far as she was aware, none of her peers had been approached with the same opportunity. She also knew that Odin's chambers comprised half an entire floor of the palace, ten maids or more stationed in the first three rooms alone. Thor's quarters are half the size, so Loki's must be about the same. That's a string of over six rooms, all to be tended by only one person.

Y/N.

"You are to work alone, yes. The young prince seems to spend much more time in his chambers than the others, so I'd begin at noon, if I were you, when he has most-likely woken and vacated his rooms for breakfast."

Y/N's jaw opened to ask: 'Why me?' but she felt she already---at least partly---knew the answer. More than Alfdis would, anyway; Y/N had told no one of her encounter with the prince on the steps the previous day, not even the very approachable head of housekeeping.

...

With her new job and added responsibility, Y/N was handed several new rules to learn.

The first was that no one else was to be allowed in Loki's chambers beside herself. Alfdis made this very clear as she pressed the chunky iron key into Y/N's hand with a sombre expression, as if it was the key to Valhalla or a mystical artifact she was now placing under Y/N's protection.

The second wasn't really a rule, more a warning:

"Remember, you are not simply scrubbing animal mess and shoe-scuffs off of some stairs anymore," Alfdis lectured as she led Y/N to Loki's chambers.

Y/N didn't know the way, never having strayed farther than the servants quarters, and the palace is so gargantuan anyway that Alfdis is probably the only person who has been alive long enough to explore and memorise the layout of all of it. Y/N kept close to her heel like a cat expecting to be fed, trying to note landmarks so she could find her way back to her room at the end of the day. The route was so far and complicated, though, she feared she'd get lost, only to be found two weeks later dead from starvation. Maybe Loki wouldn't notice if she holed up in one of his closets, just to save her the trek to and from their respected living spaces.

"You are now the housekeeper of a prince, so you must act as such." Alfdis continued, breaking Y/N's stupor. "If you must address him, he is 'Your Royal Highness' at first, and then 'Sir' after that." She continued like this, listing the intricacies of mingling with royalty so fast Y/N's brain struggled to mentally write most of it down. In the end she gave up; she hadn't done any of that stuff on the steps, and the prince had reacted by giving Y/N a promotion. Perhaps he respected her for not immediately folding herself in half to kiss his toes?

The third rule Y/N had to learn was that everything was to be put back exactly as she had found it.

"As you know, the Youngest Prince's chambers have been off-limits to all staff, even cleaners, for as long as we can remember. He's very particular, it is said, about his belongings being meddled with, so, for all these years, he's been doing his own housekeeping."

Y/N didn't know what to think about that. Part of her respected him for not taking advantage of the fact that he could order someone to _dress_ him if he wanted to, and opted for taking care of himself.

Like a man.

But another part of her wondered whether he had done this, or if she'd try to push his door open only to find it jammed with nine-hundred years worth of dirty laundry.

"I have a list of things you need to clean, and things you are to leave alone." Alfdis, with an expression of someone doing something completely alien to them, took a folded piece of white parchment from her pocket and handed it to Y/N.

It was smooth in her hands. She'd never seen white parchment before, just inexpensive stuff stained a drab yellow-ish grey. With curious fingers, she unfurled the parchment and was greeted by a line of swirling ink the colour of night. It took Y/N an embarrassing amount of time to read it; she could read, but the lavish, looping penmanship was distractingly beautiful.

"You can keep the list," Alfdis said, slightly out of breath from climbing another set of stairs. The tenth; Y/N had been counting. "No one else will be needing it. As you can see, you don't need to polish anything, or wash his clothes. It looks like quite a gentle workload---don't go telling the other girls. They'll be jealous." She gave Y/N a friendly nudge in the ribs with her pointy elbow but she's so short it landed more in the region of Y/N's hip.

The fourth rule was not brought to attention by Alfdis but actually written by whoever had made the list Y/N now had safe in her pocket. It was:

'Please do not enter the study.'

Memories of the rumours surrounding Asgard's quietest prince bubbled up at the back of Y/N's brain at this, but she pushed them back down. Alfdis must have noticed Y/N's shift in mood but mistaken it for confusion about the layout of Royalty's chambers because she clarified:

"The study is the little room that branches off from the lounge."

...

The Youngest Prince stopped being 'The Youngest Prince' in Y/N's mind on the first day of her new job and started being just 'Loki', although calling the royal family anything but their respected titles is strictly forbidden so she kept this very much to herself. There was something humbling about seeing his living quarters that transformed him from an untouchable royal to nothing but a man.

Those living quarters, by the way, were not full of unwashed laundry, like Y/N had feared. She didn't believe the rumours about the secretive younger prince, but she hadn't known what to expect when she entered his chambers either. The rich have very different lives to the working class, after all. Would she unlock his door to find exotic, vicious pets, or swarms of mistresses lounging about the place in not nearly enough clothes?

Feeling as though a small bird was desperately trying to escape the confines of Y/N's ribcage, she's stepped into Loki's chambers like a woman stepping onto a rickety bridge.

Then she relaxed.

His rooms just looked like...rooms. Comfortable, lavish rooms, but no different, really, to Y/N's own quarters, when it really came down to it. He had charcoal sticks strewn over his desk like Y/N did. His bed hastily made, pyjamas left on the pillow like Y/N's are all those miles away in the servant's quarters. There were even tight little screwed up balls of parchment stacked around the wastebasket where Loki had---no doubt---scribbled something, decided it was rubbish, and thrown it away.

Yes, one stick of his charcoal probably cost more than Y/N's outfit, and yes, his pyjamas were silk and his pillows satin. And, yes, his parchment---clean white rather than stained yellow---was probably made from the finest trees grown especially for him, but the general gist of their lives appeared to mirror each other.

He's just a person.

Y/N brought this information proudly to her curious peers as they ate dinner in the mess hall that night. Y/N had made it back down labyrinthine corridors after her first day of her new job, and was immediately swamped by people all hurling questions at her:

_'Does he really hide something hideous in his rooms? Is that why they're locked?'_

_'I heard he keeps concubines shut up in there, that's why no one is allowed in.'_

_'I heard there's something wrong with him, so the locks are to keep him inside, not other people out.'_

Y/N just waved these horrifying sentences off as people handed them to her, swatting them away like they were flies that wouldn't leave her alone:

_'They're just how you imagine a prince's quarters to be; a bedroom, a lounge---'_

_'Well there is one room I'm not allowed in but it's quiet all the time. Don't you think if someone was stuck inside I'd hear them?'_

_'There's nothing wrong with him from what I can tell. He's just quiet. No, he wasn't there while I was cleaning.'_

Unlike the more catty members of Asgard's staff, Y/N refused to form an opinion of someone she doesn't know. It upset her that Loki's---that anyone's---name could get so smudged by people he'd never spoken to, and she wanted no part of it. She was tempted to describe, in intimate detail, everything she'd seen in the prince's room to her peers, just to show them that he's normal, just a man, but the words clogged up in her throat when she tried to voice them. It felt wrong, setting free descriptions of the space Loki had worked so hard to keep private. And Y/N liked how his secrets sat with her, huddled close to her chest. 

She vowed, then, to keep them that way; safe from harm, warm and snug in her cradling arms.


	2. Chapter 2

As well as the unexplainable desire to protect Loki's privacy, Y/N also vowed to herself that she would try her best to repay him for his trust. Loki had---for some reason---decided to open up his rooms, his private space, to Y/N. He'd---Gods know why---boosted her to one of the highest ranks a servant could have, jump-started her career---skipped her past twenty years of labour; at least. 

So she would repay him by tidying as she'd never tidied before.

Literally. She hadn't forgotten Alfdis' warning that everything Y/N moves during the cleaning process is to be placed straight back in the exact position it had been found. Y/N wasn't quite sure whether the housekeeper had meant that literally, but---due to Y/N's recent promise of thanking Loki's generosity in the form of service---she decided to take it that way.

She'd worked out a system. Using what was available to her---her fingers already marked into thirds by the creases in her skin, the distance between her ankle and calf, etcetera---Y/N found that she could measure the space between objects and the objects adjacent to them. 

The left armrest of the loveseat is one calf's length away from the mirror, for example. And there is a hand-and-a-half length gap between the dresser and the rug.

This method worked so well, in fact, that you couldn't really tell anyone had been in to clean anything at all. Each day Y/N left the rooms as if she'd never entered, apart from surfaces appearing shinier, and windows freshly polished. Y/N was thankful for the list of tasks she was _not_ required to do (the parchment and ink matched that on the desk, so she could only reach the conclusion that the prince himself had written that list) because although her cleaning method is effective, it does double the time it takes to do even simple things like sweeping under rugs, or wiping countertops.  


Loki seems to be a tidy man by nature, so because of that and the list, all Y/N has to do is---besides the obvious dusting and scrubbing---switch things about a bit.

His bed was always made, so she merely had to change the sheets for an identical set.

His pyjamas would be folded, so she'd swap them with a fresh pair, making sure to bend the material in the exact same way Loki had done, spread tassels and angle ties exactly as they had been.

The notes on his desk seemed to be in a fairly logical order, so Y/N lifted them, rubbed a rag over the hard-wood surface below, then placed them back exactly as they were rather than stacking them or filing them away.

Sometimes she felt silly for doing this. Once she'd been standing on one leg, propping up an ottoman that cost more than her family's house with her foot, as she dusted under it with the broom she had clutched in one hand. She was holding a book---with its spine perpendicular to the wall---in the other, and nearly toppled over three times. 

But, as she let the ottoman fall back onto the now-spotless floor, and placed the book exactly as the prince had left it, she felt a little swell of what could only be pride bloom like a shy flower in her chest.

Even if Loki wasn't that particular about coming back to his rooms to find the tips of a quill on the desk facing the door rather than the bed, Y/N would continue to try to leave as little trace to her meddlings as possible. She owed that to him, she felt, for rescuing her from the cold front-steps, from early mornings that began before the sun was even up. His chambers are always warm, and the work is relatively easy. Yes, it's a little lonely, day after day toiling her way from one room to the next without so much as the sound of another human breath, but Y/N found ways of coping.

One of them is by looking at Loki's belongings as she cleaned them, feeling the weight and texture of quality items she'd never come across. Like the telescope propped up on three spindly legs by the lounge window. She didn't know it was a telescope; commoners have never laid eyes on such a thing, but she liked the way its long, barrel-shaped body reflected her face back in a warped, amusing way. And the dials were delicate under her fingers as she carefully ran a cloth into their grooves and over their screws. Cleaning, or just being near such an item, brought a strange sense of satisfaction.

Another way Y/N amuses herself is by trying to piece together what she thought Loki's personality might be like, using the things he owned. Whilst she flicks a duster over the rows of fat old books lined up on his shelves, or edges a rag around the pieces of parchment strewn over his desk, she attempts to fantasize about what he's like to talk to.

She hypothesized that Loki is clever. Most wealthy people are clever, Y/N understands---they can afford to be educated by tutors, for a start, rather than have their parents shakily recite the ABCs or teach them to count with heaps of seeds or small stones from outside.

Y/N also guessed---not a very difficult conclusion to reach, given that he's known for this across the realm---is that Loki is quiet. He'd seemed quiet when he'd spoken to her on the steps, and almost all of his possessions point towards his temper being long and his need for socialisation being low. Only a pure-blooded introvert would own as many art supplies, scientific instruments, and books as Loki seems to. His chambers are basically a storage space for heavy novels about art, history, and long-winded stories. They're everywhere, overflowing bookshelves to such an extent that he just keeps stacks of them piled in corners or along walls.

And the art _itself_. 

Art suddenly started to play a large role in Y/N's life. It was quite a transition, for it was not something that she had ever really thought about before. Probably because she encountered it so rarely. No one she knew back home owned a painting or a framed sketch, or even a sculpture made from clay---as far as Y/N could tell, anyway. Her peers in the servants quarters _definitely_ didn't own any art; not only did they have no money to purchase it with, they also have nowhere to put it. And, quite frankly, no time to admire it. That's one of the main reasons for the lack of fine masterpiece in Y/N's life; no one has hundreds of hours to spare perfecting or honing skills, especially one that won't bring them anything besides admiration and awe. You can't go to the market and purchase that week's supply of meat in exchange for a pretty picture.

Y/N had never tried to draw or paint, personally; besides scraping stick figures into dirt with a stick as a child, or dragging a finger through the condensation on a cold window. The concept of creating something as beautiful as the few prices of genuine art she _had_ seen was foreign to her, to say the least. She wouldn't know where to begin. Literally; where do you even get paint from? Such vibrant colours, such a smooth texture. Shurley that substance did not originate in nature? Y/N did not know it yet, but she would one day find out the answer to those questions.

Art began to crop up in Y/N's life more and more around the time she started working as the youngest prince's housemaid. For a start, the job required her to walk _to_ his chambers, which were---obviously---inside the palace. The route housed more murals and paintings and statues than Y/N had seen in her whole life, all with the same sombre, classical style. In none of them were people smiling, or even looked very happy, but Y/N found herself deeply fascinated all the same.

And then there were paintings in the prince's room, as well. Most of these were of scenery rather than people, and Y/N could easily guess, with an amused smile, which ones the prince preferred. His favourites seemed to be of mountains and forests and towns; detailed, complicated things with so much going on Y/N would still be finding new things in them no matter how long she stared at them (while she was supposed to be working). These were hanged around his most-used spaces, in the rare gaps between bookshelves, above fireplaces, over desks, etcetera. There were a few pieces, however, that had been placed in more discrete locations, like behind the thick columns of curtain pulled back from windows, or in nooks where the wall bends, hiding them from view from most angles. They must have been presents, Y/N concluded, half-hearted gifts from people who hadn't tried to know him. They weren't like the vivid, striking paintings he favoured at all, they were more suited to the drab, restrained pictures dotted about the rest of the palace.

It didn't take long for Y/N to realise her employer was some kind of artist himself. Anyone rich enough to afford the equipment can be an artist, technically, but the prince actually seemed to understand and respect the craft.

The first giveaway to this is probably his taste in decorations; what he chooses to hang on his walls compared to the pictures he tends to keep from his eye line. Even Y/N's art-starved mind could tell the paintings Loki favoured were not just copies of whatever the painter was looking at at the time. They had meaning, an added beauty, a dash of personality and insight mixed into the brush strokes.

The second give away was the vast amount of stationary the prince seemed to own. Being a prince, Y/N had expected Loki's living space to be reserved and regal and, well, almost _bland_. One luxury royals do not seem to have access to is a personality---or so it always seems that way when they give an address or are seen walking about their kingdom with a rehearsed blank expression---not the slightest flicker of emotion betrayed on their deadpan faces.

But the youngest prince's quarters are full of evidence of the contrary. Some of his pencils are bitten, little indents freckling their bodies where the smooth edges of his teeth had nibbled away while he used them for whatever it is he uses them for. Gummy fragments of erasers are e _verywhere_ (that is, in fact, the only reason Y/N has to sweep his pristine floors at all). And the _charcoal_ _sticks_ , the _pastels---_ Y/N had never seen so many colours in all her life. He keeps everything neatly tucked away in draws and chests, but it's _there,_ and that's what interests Y/N the most.

The third giveaway, and this is the clincher, that Loki Odinson holds some kind of artistic talent, Y/N came across when emptying the wicker basket he uses as a waste bin.

Emptying the bin was not on Loki's list of things Y/N was _not_ to do, so she used her initiative and took it upon herself to collect up the little balls of parchment scattered around the hardwood floors and dispose of them. For the first two weeks of doing this, Y/N staved off the urge to unfurl one and take a look at what the prince had obviously deemed trash. Did he note down his dreams? Diary entries? Plots or schemes or stories?

No.

She broke when she was kneeled by the desk in Loki's lounge, panels of watery sunlight from the bay windows falling onto the floor around her in planks. She was plucking up yesterday's balls of paper, noticing a streak of black ink on some, a delicately shaded area on another. She could resist no longer, she had to know what these patches of hasty scribblings were a part of. Feeling her pulse in her fingertips, she fervently checked over both her shoulders. No one was around, she was alone, as always, so, heart a lump in her throat, she took one of the crushed up sheets of parchment at random.

Carefully, Y/N tweaked it open, bit by bit, wincing if the delicate material teared or split when she forced it beyond its limits. It felt wrong, invading the prince's privacy like this; peeking at something he obviously didn't want the world to see was like forcing a rose to unfurl by pulling apart its petals.

What was inside was more beautiful than a rose, if you can imagine such a thing.

It was a sketch of a deer. The deer was clearly a doe, everything about it delicate and slender and feminine, even though it must have been drawn with a clumsily chunky stick of charcoal. The parchment was barely as large as Y/N's two hands spread next to each other, but the level of detail in the image didn't reflect that at all, despite the limited real estate. Each shift in colour of the doe's fur had been captured and represented by a slight reduction or increase in pressure applied to the charcoal. The shadows carefully warping when met by hills of bone or curves of muscle, little patches of white reflection left blank in the deer's wide soulful eyes.

Why had he thrown this away? Y/N wanted to stuff it into her pocket.

Next to the deer was a spindly tree sprouting twisting, brittle branches. Y/N recognised it but couldn't place it. She was contemplating this, mentally running through memories of the grounds surrounding the palace---because only a tree on royal property could manage to keep its fruit all summer without having it pinched---when a voice sounded in front of her:

"Please do not judge my artistic prowess based on that."

Y/N started so violently she nearly tore the drawing in half. The only thing stopping her was some deep instinct, some knowledge that destroying something so beautiful would be a terrible thing. 

Obviously, the person who'd spoken was Loki. These are his quarters, this is his drawing, and no one else has a key to this room besides Y/N and the prince himself. She could feel the weight of it in her pocket, heavy with responsibility and trust that he'd just caught her breaking.

Y/N kept her head bowed to the paper, frozen like an alert hare as the prince stepped closer. His footfalls are as light and silent as a cat, so Y/N had no idea how close he was until his feet drew up in her eyeline. They were bare, a stark contrast against the hardwood floor, light cotton trousers the colour of leaves ending just before his bony ankles.

Curiosity overrode Y/N's fear to move, in the end. She managed to meet the Prince's pale eyes by climbing the sweep of his body with her own. It was a long climb, and she kept getting sidetracked, branching off on little detours; the harsh angle of collarbone against the pine-needle colour of his v neck. The clean-cut of his jawline. His thin lips, two parallel lines of delicate pink like the inside of a peony.

When she eventually made it to his pupils she found him watching her intently. Not critically, but with a kind of scientific curiosity, as one would watch songbirds fluttering about a feeder, or koi fish in a pond.

At least he's not angry. Or if he is, he's doing a good job of restraining it. He is one hundred per cent in his right to punish her insolence right there and then, verbally or physically.

Y/N moistened her lips. "Why did you throw it away?" The question had tumbled out before she could grab hold of it. She didn't care about being hit, or thrown out. She wanted to know.

Mild surprise blossomed over the prince's face. "Can't you see what's wrong with it?"

Y/N's cheeks heated and she hastily bent her head again to analyse the drawing, raking her eyes over the quick lines and gentle shading. She was so distracted by trying to prove she wasn't ignorant that the fear of him firing her on the spot for snooping momentarily left her brain. And he's t _alking_ to her. Y/N had been working at the palace since she was old enough _to_ work; reluctantly flung out into the world followed in a cloud of her financially-struggling parent's apologies. Since then, she's never so much as _ran_ _into_ a member of the royal family, let alone been asked to spare judgment, and then to critique the work of one of them.

As time went on, Y/N's brow set into a deeper and deeper furrow. There's nothing wrong with the picture. She couldn't find anything at all; it's a little smudged but that was clearly done on purpose, to give the indication of colour; soft sweeps and presses of the prince's fingerprint along the doe's body as if he was soothing it during its creation.

Y/N raised her head again. "There's nothing wrong with it."

The faintest hint of a smile twitched the corners of his lips.

Y/N suddenly forgot how to breathe.

"Here." The prince took another step closer, an elegant stride, and, with a rustle of expensive fabric, he was kneeling next to her. He smelled of that scent he keeps in a glass flask on his dresser. Y/N couldn't put her finger on what precisely it was. It was rich and creamy like those beans she'd admired at the more expensive end of the town's local market, but it also had an earthy, woody scent underlined by a tart, spicy tang---like the sap from leaves after heavy rain. His entire chambers sort of smelled like it, the sweetness clinging to the fibres in rugs and sofas, and something else, something Y/N would later learn to be fresh paint.

So close she could touch him, the Prince didn't look at her, but at the drawing still clasped tightly in her hands. Y/N hoped the droplets of sweat quickly beading on her palms wouldn't show through the parchment. Loki held out one slender hand, his arm extended slightly in the small space between their bodies. He was pointing to the doe's flank. Y/N tried to keep as steady as possible. She was afraid she'd tremble and push the brushes of charcoal into the pad of the prince's finger.

"You see the shadow here?" He asked. His voice was like honey and Y/N was drowning. It was filling her head and gumming up her jaw.

Swallowing it; "Yes."

Loki's finger moved over to point at the deer's face, now. There was a dark patch below its cheek where the sunlight couldn't reach due to a smooth arch of bone under one of its orb-like eyes. "Over here, the shadow is coming from the left." Back to the doe's rear leg: "But over here it comes from the right." He turned to Y/N, then, watching her piece this information together. His barely-detectable smile broadened a fraction when a light of understanding lit up the back of Y/N's eyes.

"Oh."

"I wasn't paying attention when I drew it. My mind must have wandered and I made the mistake." Loki stood again, and crossed over to the window where the telescope Y/N had only just finished polishing stood, slender and mysterious.

Y/N missed the price's proximity but tried not to let her disappointment show. Standing, too, she edged as close to Loki as she dared---which wasn't very close.

He didn't turn around, just stared out the window, his svelte body framed by the afternoon-sun-stained sky mottled with cirrus clouds.

"But that doesn't ruin the picture," Y/N pushed the words from her chest, handing them to him. She felt as though she was a blind woman using a cane to test whether the ground in front of her was safe to walk on. He could fire her, or worse, he might shout at her for crossing so many lines she might as well resign right now--- "I couldn't even tell there was something wrong with it until you pointed it out."

Loki chuckled, then, an almost-silent exhalation of air through those peony-petal lips. He was still smiling, though. If you could call it that.

Y/N wished she could make him laugh properly; she bet the corners of his eyes would go all crinkly.

" _I_ could tell, though, so it had to go."

"But it's so beautiful," Y/N stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them slightly and Loki noticed, his eyes finally moving from the view outside to the floorboards between them, as if he was counting how many were left separating his bare feet from Y/N's covered ones. "How could you ruin something so precious? Did you at least try to draw it again?" She regretted it as soon as it had left her mouth.

The price's mouth hardened into a frown. He turned back to the window. "No, because I had things to do. As, I am sure, do you."

Y/N wanted to ask what on Asgard does a prince _have_ to do, but said instead in a reedy tone: "Sorry. I didn't mean---" 

She didn't know how to finish that sentence. 

Sorry she'd peeked at something he clearly didn't want anyone to see? 

Sorry she'd accused him of being heartless enough to destroy beautiful things? 

Sorry she'd talked back to him, talking to him _at_ _all,_ when someone of her station should have backed silently out of the room as soon as he'd entered because she's not worthy to be in his presence?

Probably the only sensible thing she'd done since the prince's arrival, Y/N started retreat, making a quick little grab for her mop as she passed it, handle leaning casually against the wall, discarded. She didn't know if the prince had noticed she was leaving because his broad back is to her, still, hands clasped at the small of it; closed off and unapproachable. Y/N kept her eyes glued to the back of his head until she was into the next room, then turned and sprinted for the door, closing it with an ominous thud of heavy wood behind her. 


	3. Chapter 3

Y/N had dropped the drawing of the deer on the dresser by the door, remembering to do so only at the last second. 

As she hurried across the palace to the servant’s quarters, she wondered if she should tell Alfdis about what had happened in Loki’s quarters. The head housemaid would want to know why Y/N had been let-go so suddenly, and so soon after a promotion, as well.

She reached the conclusion that---if Alfdis didn’t find out through some other means, Y/N would take her mistakes to the grave. At least that way she stood a small chance of leaving this job with a recommendation.

But Y/N hadn’t been fired, not yet anyway. The prince had never explicitly _said_ that she was let-go. Probably because Y/N hadn’t hung around long enough to give him a chance to fire her, she realised with a sensation as though someone was looping a noose around her neck.

Several people inquired as to her listlessness that evening at dinner, others skirted around her, keeping a safe distance, having assumed she was sick and not wanting to catch anything. 

When Y/N caught sight of Alfdis---well, the top of her head---navigating the mess hall, any remaining colour in Y/N’s cheeks drained instantly.

The little woman eventually tracked Y/N down, Y/N not helping with this at all (she actually edged to the corner of the room, prolonging the inevitable so she could at least finish her meal before she’d thrown out onto the streets in disgrace). As soon as the head house keeper’s moon-like face was close enough for Y/N to see the intricate lines of her expression she tried to judge what was to come. Would Y/N hear anger in Alfdis’ voice for the first time in all her years of service? Or would she just shake her head in disapproval (which would be much worse) as she pointed Y/N to the door?

“Y/N? This was in my---dear child, whatever is the matter with you? Are you coming down with something? You know the rule---go straight to bed if you feel ill, let someone else take over so we don’t all get sick.”

Y/N moistened her lips and tried to pull them into a smile as she did a good impression of nonchalantly waving off the older woman’s concerns. If this was Alfdis terminating Y/N’s employment maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as Y/N feared, collecting up the few things she owned and doing the walk of shame. “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep well last night.” Not a very convincing lie, but Alfdis nodded sympathetically all the same.

“You and me both; Her Majesty and the allfather’s anniversary is coming up and its down to me to plan the feast, but our regular butcher doesn’t think he can get enough meat in time so I’ve had to enlist the help of another one but I’m not so sure---”

“Alfdis,” Y/N interrupted as politely as she could, sliding the word into her rant like a roadblock.

Her old greying eyes blinked a few times. “Oh, yes, sorry, dear, got carried away." She tucked a few strands of cobweb-coloured hair behind her ears like a bird smoothing its feathers. "This was left on my desk for you.”

Y/N was the one to blink this time, her eyes following one of Alfdis’ bony hands as it drew an envelope from her bodice pocket. Y/N took it, hoping she didn’t look like she was about to pass out, and Alfdis wavered---as if hoping Y/N would open the envelope in her presence. Thousands of years old and still curious.

Feeling bad for keeping things from the kindly woman, Y/N stood---to the best of her ability---anyway. She wanted to read whatever laid inside the delicate parchment clutched in her fist in the safety of her own quarters.

Y/N knew who the letter was from, her name was inscribed on the back of the envelope in that same looping handwriting that told her not to enter the prince’s study or bother washing his clothes. The ink matches the droplets Y/N regularly scrubbed off the desk in his lounge.

Bidding her head housekeeper goodnight, Y/N forced her legs to take her to her quarters. The room is small but high ceilinged, so Y/N doesn’t mind sharing with three other women. There’s more than enough space for the three of them and their narrow single beds lined up along one wall, and Y/N often finds the room pleasingly empty; their schedules rarely overlapping.

The room was empty now, and Y/N didn’t hesitate to hunt around for an object roughly the same kind of shape as a letter knife. She opted for the toothbrush in her wash kit, and used it to lightly tear a line along the top of the envelope. She pulled the parchment inside free with the same severity as if she was ripping off a plaster---it didn’t matter that it was from the prince, anymore. Before, she would have treated anything he gave her as though it was as breakable as eggshells---but not this. Not a letter instructing her to pack up what little she owned and find another place of work.

But it wasn’t a letter of dismissal. It wasn’t a letter at all. It was another drawing of a doe, identical to the one Y/N had left on Loki’s dresser---

Apart from the shadow along its flank. This time it was coming from the left. Ghosts of letters were showing through the parchment along the blank bottom corner and Y/N turned it over. Inscribed in a delicate hand were the words:

_‘I tried again.’_

_..._

By the next morning, Loki still hadn’t fired her, so Y/N reached the conclusion she was---probably---still employed, and headed off at her usual time to tackle the long trek to her place of work. She was nervous about returning to the prince’s chambers, despite his clear attempt at a peace offering. She wished the walk wasn't so long. It gave her too much time to think, and she could only think about one thing.

She knew what the prince’s note on the back of the drawing had meant. Yesterday Y/N had accused him of ruining something precious, and then jabbed at him for giving up with trying to correct his mistake.

_‘I tried again.’_

That, along with the new sketch, was his way of saying Y/N had been right. Sort of like...an apology for snapping at her.

Y/N guessed he didn’t want the picture back, though, which is what confused her. It had just been one of _many_ bunched up balls of parchment scattered in and around his waste-bin. The doe was just _one_ drawing---a doodle, judging by his lase attitude towards it. But he’d tried to make it better, until he _succeeded_ in making it better--- _started_ _from_ _scratch---_ and gifted Y/N the finished product. 

Why? 

Why spend---what had to be---hours re-making one illustration out of dozens of half-finished ones? Why that one in particular?

Obviously, it was because that had been the one Y/N had seen and called beautiful. That had been the one that had caused the knot of tension between her and the prince, a knot he clearly wanted to unravel.

_Why? Why? Why?_

Did he _want_...something...from Y/N? He’s a member of the royal family---one rank below the allfather himself--- technically, he could take whatever he may want from her whenever he wants it. Y/N knew what males could be like, and a _royal_ male especially, with the whole realm at his fingertips---

He wasn’t going to have _her_ at his fingertips, she decided that right there and then. She'd grimaced at the thought. At the beginning of her commute, she'd set off hoping to catch the prince in his chambers, to thank him for the drawing, apologise for her impudence, and promise to never treat him with such disrespect again. But _now_ she didn’t want him to be there at all. Y/N didn’t want to be anyone’s courtesan, even to a handsome prince.

He _is_ handsome. 

Y/N couldn’t deny that she found him attractive. He’s mystical, in an elegant, aloof kind of way, his slender build lending itself to his pointy facial features and extensive limbs.

But that’s the _only_ way he’s handsome, Y/N lectured herself sternly---his appearance _alone_ \---because she didn’t know him well enough to assess anything else. They hadn’t exchanged enough words to know his personality, hadn’t interacted enough to know whether he’s shy or sympathetic or courageous or gentle or intelligent.

Well, of course he’s intelligent. You just had to run your eyes down the spines of the fat old books lined up on his shelves and stacked in well-used piles dotted about the floor to know that. And he’s obviously gentle, and probably sympathetic---artists _do_ usually have a rich and functional connection with their softer side. And he’d drawn Y/N the deer, a sort of apology for barking at her even though he should have done much, much more to her for invading his personal life.

So, yes. Maybe Y/N had a _tiny c_ rush on the tall, good-looking, gentle, artistic son of Odin. Who _wouldn't_? That doesn’t mean she’d like---or even agree to---being his concubine. She’s poor but not t _hat_ poor.

And he wouldn't know _how_ to be a concubine, for a start. She’d had men show interest in her, yes, but she’d never agreed to go out with any of them, let alone...make it to the bedroom. Or anywhere close to the bedroom. She’s not been of legal age for very long---she’s not _ready_. Or she just hasn’t met someone who makes her feel ready.

...

Y/N needn't have worried. The prince didn’t want Y/N as his courtesan---he wasn’t there waiting for her on the bed, ready to reap his rewards for being so courteous like Y/N had feared. In fact, he wasn't in his chambers at all. Y/N’s tensely set shoulders had wilted in relief when she’d done a quick little check-in each room and found them all mercifully empty.

Loki’s rooms remained empty for several months---at least while he knew Y/N to be cleaning. She didn’t hear from him at all, besides the occasional note left on a table or a dresser with an instruction in swirling ink telling her not to bother dusting the bookshelves for a few days because they didn’t need it, or politely asking her to stop trying to get the paint stains out of the chaise lounge because they didn’t actually bother him.

To say Y/N liked working for the prince would be an understatement. Every day---apart from the last day in the calendar week, which was her day off---she’d trek to the youngest prince’s chambers, tidy, sweep, and clean, then trek back to the servant’s quarters with a few hours to spare. He’d taken care of his own living space for so long he didn’t seem to be able to drop the habit---or, somehow, he felt he didn’t deserve to be waited on hand and foot, so Y/N’s workload really was, as Alfdis had put it: ‘gentle’. She even had time to go for walks in the gardens before supper, most nights, which brought a rosiness to her cheeks and a smile to her face that the other maids grew quietly envious of. They’d started calling Loki Odinson _‘Your Prince’_ when around Y/N;

_‘Your Prince treating your good?’_

_‘Didn’t Your Prince give you any work today? It’s only half two.’_

_‘Is Your Prince paying you to waltz around rose gardens or are you on commission?’_

But they shut up quickly whenever Alfdis passed by.

Concerns that _they_ suspected Y/N tobethe prince’s concubine stirred in the back of her mind every now and again, but then she decided that she didn’t care. She denied it, obviously, when asked--- _‘No, I just tidy his rooms,’---_ but if they wanted to think he’d shown an interest in her over all of them, all of the women in the _kingdom_ , Y/N wasn’t going to waste energy trying to persuade them otherwise.

...

Of course, cleaning for Loki wasn’t all easy. Y/N did still have to do s _ome_ work, and the work she had to do was made twice as hard by the method she continued to apply to her tidying; placing things back _exactly_ where they had come from, measuring the distance between objects to make sure she did so.

She’d been doing this, skirting a cloth around a leather-bound notebook on his bedside table one day, when she’d felt a presence behind her.

This had been the first time the prince had made himself known---in person---since the incident with the drawing by the window. 

Y/N had wondered if he had been avoiding her, but then, of course, she is _just_ a maid and he _is_ a member of the royal family. He’s probably so busy doing whatever it is prince’s do that he’d forgotten what she even looks like. She’s just the person who comes in when he’s not there to fluff pillows and neaten things up; like the story of the shoemaker and the elves, her being the elves, of course. 

Y/N wasn’t sure it _was_ Loki at first---she’d thought she’d heard his bare feet on the floorboards several times over the last few months only to turn around and find no one there. 

Now, though, she knew it was him. She’d forgotten how you don’t hear him approach, you _feel_ him, his body, somewhere near you although you’re not sure exactly where until you look up. She did that now, placing what she’d been holding in her left hand down, and turned around, her throat tightening and her stomach doubling in on itself, although she wasn’t sure why.

“What are you doing?” Loki’s voice was silken, more silken than she remembered, a velvety ribbon of syllables that slipped around the insides of Y/N’s ears and tied her brain up in a neat bow.

And he’s taller than she remembered. All Asgardian males are tall, but Loki is _tall,_ tall and slender and pale like a willow tree. The light breeze from the open window behind his left shoulder is teasingly tugging at his magpie-breast hair like it had done on the steps, the light from the summer sky somehow catching his lime-green irises, despite the fact that he wasn’t facing it.

Now that she thought about it, Y/N had never seen such a beautiful man in all her life. “What?” She choked out, some little voice in her head prodding her whilst yelling some kind of reminder to curtsey---or something. 

She didn’t, though. 

She’s not sure why.

“You were doing something with your finger. While you cleaned my bedside table.” He didn’t look angry (although he has no reason to be angry, Y/N soothed herself), more amused, actually, the corner of his narrow lips tweaking up into what could be mistaken for a smile.

She’d missed that smile. Y/N, subconsciously---and _self_ consciously---smoothed imaginary dust from the front of her uniform. “I was measuring.” She should really use more words but her tongue didn’t seem capable of anything over five syllables, right now. The prince’s ribbon-like voice was tying her up in knots, clogging her vocal cords. And that s _mile._ It’s not even a smile, it’s just a slight shifting of facial muscles, a _projection_ of a smile, like ink shining through parchment.

_'I tried again.'_

“Measuring?”

“With my hand. To make sure I put everything back in the right place.” Cheeks reddening as Loki’s smile grew to a smirk as if he was very much entertained, Y/N held out a hand as if to illustrate what she meant. Her anxiety seemed to have swung in the opposite direction in the past millisecond or so; now she couldn’t shut up. “The top of the notebook is a third of my forefinger from the candle-holder, the stick of charcoal is perpendicular to the bottom of the notebook, with a nail width of space between them---”

One of Loki’s broad hands cut her off, a dismissive wave. His skin is the same colour as fresh milk. “I see. May I ask…”

Y/N almost said: _‘You’re my superior, technically you can ask me anything’_ but bit her tongue.

“Why?”

“Why?” Y/N repeated stupidly, tilting her head.

“Yes, why measure the distance between things? Why not just…” He reached over, his forearm almost brushing Y/N’s elbow, and Y/N felt the back of her neck heat as though she was standing too close to a fire. Loki picked up the leather-bound notebook smoothly, and then dropped it back onto the table. It fell atop the charcoal stick and Y/N winced, knowing it would leave a dark smudge on the rear cover. “...put things back wherever you like?”

As his hand withdrew and snaked around to cross over the small of his back with the other one, Y/N let her spine loosen a fraction. She was becoming easier around him, now that she knew he wasn’t going to send her scurrying away or glare at her for her rudeness during their last interaction---even though he'd shown he regretted snapping at her. She licked her lips, her mouth strangely dry. “I heard that...and I _thought_ that you don’t like your things being moved.”

Loki’s smirk widened enough to give Y/N a glimpse at the smooth edges of his white teeth and he---he really did---he laughed. A mellow chuckle rippling up from his lungs and filling the air with little waves like a puddle disturbed by a droplet of rain. “So you’ve been...what did you call it? ‘Measuring’ every single item as you clean around it?”

“Yes.” She nearly added ‘sir’ on the end of that embarrassed, lonely little word, just to give it some company.

Loki had been watching her attentively throughout their conversation, his eyes only wavering from her steady gaze to slide over the curve of her face of the nervous rhythm her right hand was tapping into her thigh. He looked thoughtful, now, a hazy look clouding his pretty eyes as he contemplated something, then said, with no particular tone:

“Come with me.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Y/N couldn't even begin to guess where---or to what---the prince was taking her. When he'd said 'Come with me' she'd thought they'd at least leave his chambers. She half expected him to lead her on a long, mysterious trek to either a laboratory hidden under the palace full of half-complete experiments and vials of green liquid, or a picturesque spot he 'likes to take fine maidens to watch the sunset'. It could honestly go either way at this point.

That's why her eyebrows rose in mild surprise when the prince turned around and started walking further _into_ his quarters rather than to the exit. Y/N had passionately cared for these rooms for the past however many months, she knew every inch of them. There couldn't possibly be anything new he could to show her.

Dutifully, Y/N followed Loki's bare feet---that were absolutely soundless on the hardwood floor---through the string of rooms. The rooms looked different with him in them, more alive, each item suddenly becoming interactive rather than an ornamental part of the surroundings. Loki always looks a little out of place in the vibrant, summery gardens of Asgard Palace, but, in here, surrounded by books and little trinkets collected over his youth, he appears quite at home.

He came to a halt at a door pushed into the very last wall in the chain of rooms, and suddenly Y/N understood. She hadn't cleaned _every_ inch of Loki's chambers, there still remained _one_ , that one that he'd asked her not to enter.

The study.

The door looked like all the other doors. You wouldn't be able to tell there's anything special about whatever lies inside were it not for the fact that Y/N had been asked specifically not to investigate it. Although thinking about it, she could have done if she wanted to, she's now realising. It's not locked. Loki just reached out with one well-practised hand and turned the doorknob slightly to the right, gave it a little pull, and it opened. 

As if to add gravitas, or maybe just being a little bit of a showman, he then left it ajar, the thin stream of light able to escape being so meagre Y/N could tell nothing about the other side beside the fact that it must have a lot of windows. "I've never let anyone in here," Loki said quietly. It was as if he was giving the room an introduction, and---had Y/N not vowed to herself to treat him with more respect---she would have taken the breast of his thin cotton shirt and given him a little shake for being so dramatic.

Giving a small nod of her head to show that she understood the trust he was placing in her hands, or the privilege, or whatever, Y/N tried not to look too impatient or interested. Even though she really was. 

"Even when I was a child I didn't let elders come in to tidy."

"I know." Y/N remembered last night's game of 'Let's Bet What Horrors Loki Keeps Locked Up In His Chambers' the staff had started at dinner. Some sickly, sour little part of Y/N's brain wondered if she was about to owe some of them money.

"You do?"The prince actually looked momentarily surprised. Did he not know he was a point of interest to basically the entire realm of Asgard, being a prince, and all?

He's not very good at the poker face expression the rest of his family have mastered so well, is he? Or maybe he _is_ , just not around Y/N because he's wildly unprepared for a commoner to be so insolent and forward. Y/N treats him just like any other person, royal or not, and it seems to make his brain stop processing, getting jammed up like a wagon wheel with a stick lodged into it.

 _Why hadn't she curtsied?_ And how difficult is it to remember to call him 'Sir', at the very least? She's getting too relaxed, too friendly, and mentally scolded herself, although Loki didn't seem to mind.

Y/N's cheeks heated uncomfortably under his pale eyes. "Yes. Alfdis---the head housekeeper---told me. She stressed that I was not to go into the study."

The corner of Loki's thin lips twitched into his trademark almost-undetectable-smile. "Well, that rule no longer applies."

He gave the heavy door a small nudge, keeping one slender hand on the handle and gesturing welcomingly with the other like Y/N had seen butlers do for Odin's wife, Her Majesty Frigga. It made Y/N's face turn a darker shade of pink---not because he was being gentlemanly and it was making her knees feel like cooked pasta---but because he was treating her like a Lady. A _real_ lady, the social status not the fairer sex, and Y/N definitely didn't deserve it. She suddenly felt as though she had been caught trying on the king's crown and sitting on his throne.

The door swung open easily, the hinges smooth and worn. So this room is regularly used? That surprised Y/N. That meant the prince had either used it a lot in the _past_ and then _stopped_ when Y/N started working for him--- she'd never seen him go in or out of it---or he'd actually never left his rooms at all during Y/N's shifts, and had actually been just on the other side the wall as Y/N had been cleaning---

"By the way, I am familiar with Alfdis," Loki added, a little curtly.

Y/N blinked at him. She'd think about that remark later; her mind is still trying to catch up with the rapidly accumulating stack of realisations, anxieties, and emotions this whole situation was dumping upon her so suddenly, and in such a polite, and charming way. The prince is still standing there, one arm directing her into the room, his expression expectant and, if Y/N didn't know any better, a little self-conscious.

What did he have to be self-conscious about? If Y/N judges him for whatever's kept in this room he spends so much time holed up in, he can simply have her cast out. Or beheaded. Is that legal---? Not that it matters; he's a son of The Allfather, he can _make_ it legal.

Tentatively, Y/N took a small step close to the open study door. She---and she knew this was stupid---hadn't wanted to stand too close in case that curly-haired blonde lad who stokes the fires was right about the prince keeping his chambers locked to stop a giant, carnivorous pet from breaking loose.

There appeared to be nothing living inside the room, though; she would have heard it, Y/N persuaded herself. It was silent, and nothing had run for freedom as soon as the prince had opened the door---the door had been _unlocked_ this whole time _\---_ so Y/N kept edging forwards until she was standing on the threshold.

It's a studio. 

An artist's studio, although Y/N didn't know that that's what it's called---in her busy world of work no one had the time for such things.

Besides its contents, the room itself is _also_ different from the rest in several ways.

First of all, it's clearly situated at the very edge of the palace where the North and East walls intersect; the usual line of wide, gaping windows spreads over two walls rather than the usual one.

The second is that it's significantly smaller than the lounge or the bed-chamber, or any of the other rooms the prince had at his disposal that Y/N didn't even know the names of. Y/N wondered whether---when the palace was built---this was actually intended as some sort of closet; a walk-in wardrobe perhaps. She liked the reduced size, the closer walls. It's less barren than the rest of the palace which is so spacious it's often easy to feel lonely.

The third is that it's the only room in Loki's string of chambers that is actually, properly lived in. The prince's efforts to keep his living space tidy are obvious in much of his quarters, but they clearly do not extend this deep, his need for cleanliness obviously pittering out somewhere between the door and the sofa at the back of the lounge. But the messiness somehow lends itself rather than acts as a hindrance. The carefully-organised chaos is almost...pretty, in a way.

There's pots of brushes---and, more often than not, just... _unbound_ brushes--- littering every flat surface available, their bristles varying in conduction; some matted and caked with dried paint, others fine and full like the brush of a fox. Now that Y/N looks closer, their bristles actually varyin the _type_ of animal she could compare them too. Yes, some were fluffy and fuzzy like a vixen's tail, but others were slick with short, thick, somewhat oily hairs like an otter's, or long and coarse like the hackles of a dog.

There's other equipment too; bowls and palettes, all mostly clean apart from hardened crusts where paint had dried before it could be sponged away. Y/N could see several knives---of some sort---all wide, some with curved points like butter knives and others with pointy ones like a cake server. They were stained too, mainly on their wooden handles, so obviously used for painting, although Y/N couldn't begin to guess how.

There are spills, spatters, splatters, and scuffs of paint where Loki had touched the walls, the desks, the countertops, without knowing he had pigment on his hands. The room looked like it had very colourful scars. A lot of them are somewhat subdued, neutral tones, like skin and the sky and cloth---Y/N could deduce the prince's style without even looking at the easel standing proudly on spindly legs in the centre of the room.

 _The easel._ It supported an airy canvas---something Y/N had never seen before but figured to be a thin membrane of linen stretched over a wooden frame---and once Y/N's eyes had fallen onto it they couldn't drag themselves away.

It was a picture of the market place a short walk from the palace grounds, a close up of about three stalls, one selling fruit, the other various heaps of spices, and the third displaying barrels stacked high with beans and seeds; some fine as sand, others as large as a goose egg.

Several things were happening in the picture at once.

The stall in the centre of the image---the one selling fruit---was tended by a middle-aged woman with a happy, round face who was handing a tall man a basket of apples, the afternoon sun lighting up her flame-red hair spectacularly on one side. Her young daughter---it had to be her daughter, same ginger curls were sprouting from her head, wrangled in with ties---was perched on the counter and fiddling away with a puzzle toy. The toy was made of wood and Y/N recognised it from her own childhood; you must line up all the symbols by shifting the square pieces about one by one.

The spice stall had two people behind it, an older man and a younger version, probably his son, who were freckled with bursts of colour; spilt and smudged spices, clearly. Y/N could smell their clothes in her mind, memories of passing stalls just like it and the way each spice burned and tickled the inside of her nose. The men must have constantly watering eyes, she contemplated.

The last stall was the one selling beans and seeds, and it was the busiest of the three, but probably not with people that intended to buy. The stall-owner appeared to have vacated his property for a moment, perhaps to relieve himself or collect more stock. Six children had taken advantage of this and were surrounding his produce, dipping their hands in it, feeling the little shells passing through the gaps in their fingers.

There were other things in the picture too; a group of stray hens pecking up anything the children dropped and would no doubt be charged for later. Several young adults huddled together in a tight-knit group, probably enjoying a day off from school or---judging by the quality of their outfits---work.

It was as though the painting consisted of multiple layers; every now and again Y/N realized she'd found a new one she hadn't noticed before. The people at the stalls were the focus of the image. Then, after that, there were finer details like footprints pressed into the gravel paths, weeds managing to sprout in the dust-like mud, different fonts used on the little signs and price-tags prodded into or dangling off items that were for sale.

None of the people in the painting looked as though they were posing to be painted. It was as if time had been brought to a halt and spread over this foot-long rectangle of cotton.

Y/N had gravitated towards the picture without realising, leaning towards it slightly as though she wanted to fall into it. She kind of _did_ want to; it looked so bright, so pleasant compared to the other pictures she'd seen around the palace. It reflected the hopeful hubbub of the market place Y/N loved so much, the excitement emanating from the sellers as produce was successfully exchanged for coins.

"They don't look like they knew you were painting them," Y/N said quietly, rank and manners and class completely forgotten. There was the slight possibility the prince had somehow created this from his imagination, but Y/N doubted it. She recognised the stalls, for a start. And the expressions, the delicate tensing and teasing of each person's facial muscles---even a medic couldn't have captured them with this degree of accuracy from memory alone.

Loki had come to stand near Y/N---but not so near that she'd feel threatened, in this new environment---and was regarding her face through the corners of his eyes. Amused by her fascination, they'd crinkled with a smile, but Y/N was so absorbed in the painting she didn't get to catch it. "They probably _didn't_ know I was painting them."

Turning to him, surprised: "How can a _prince_ just take a seat in a market and paint the locals without anyone _noticing?"_

"I wear a cloak." He shrugged simply, but Y/N sensed that wouldn't be enough to hide all six-foot-two of his royal Asgardian body. And he'd need most of his face uncovered to look at what he was painting, surely people would notice _that_. He didn't exactly appear...normal; all parchment-white skin and eyes the colour of sunshine through a leaf.

YN wanted to badger him for the real secret to his passing through a crowd unnoticed, but the words died in her chest. She couldn't press him. She couldn't force him to reveal things if he didn't want to, and not because she doesn't have the right to---not because he's a prince---but because she doesn't want to scare him away. He has decided to let her into his life---for some reason---and this made Y/N's chest warm with something. She didn't recognise w _hat_ exactly, she just knew she liked it and didn't want it to stop.

There was a while, next, of Y/N just staring at the painting and Loki just staring at Y/N. He tilted his head at her when her brow furrowed, a thought passing clearly before her eyes. He didn't need to say anything, Y/N could sense his curiosity, his unspoken question.

"It's beautiful," she clarified, just in case he interpreted her confusion for distaste.

"But?" He took a step closer, gauging Y/N's reaction. Then, when she didn't seem to mind, he didn't stop, edging nearer until he was in line with Y/N's side, both of them now facing the painting. He still wasn't looking at it, though.

Y/N shifted her weight onto her other foot and turned the question in her brain over several times, analysing it. The prince seems fairly lase about Y/N's lack of curtseying and grovelling, but surely there must be a point---even for him---where conversation veers off into too-personal territory. Despite this: "Why did you paint it?"

Loki tipped his head the other way, watching her thoughtfully. He reminded Y/N of a teacher waiting for her to piece together the answer to her own question. "Was I not _supposed_ to paint it? I could compensate the people in it; if consent is what troubles you---"

Imagine that; a prince worrying he'd upset _Y/N_. She couldn't help the lower half of her face splitting into a smile. "No, I mean...I know where these stalls are, they're next to a set of steps leading up to a hill with houses on it." She snuck a glance at the prince's face; she still felt as though she had to tread carefully, but less so now. She replenished her lungs with oxygen, finding him just watching her with an expression she couldn't read but didn't deem to be bad and continued: "You painted this from on those steps, didn't you?"

He nodded, if Y/N didn't know any better, she would say encouragingly.

"Well, if you would have faced the _other_ way, you would have had a view of the palace---one of the grandest buildings in the Nine Realms."

Indifferently: "So?"

"So I just wondered why you didn't paint that, and instead opted for some random villagers selling seeds and fruit."

Loki chuckled and Y/N caught it this time, and it made her forget how to breathe. "Because the palace isn't beautiful," he said simply, the long line of his shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. "If I see something beautiful I like to capture it, sort of...freeze it in time so I can look at it whenever I want. I wanted to look at this scene some more."

"You think commoners selling things is beautiful?"

He regarded Y/N quizzically. "Do you not?"

Y/N pondered this. Judging purely based on the way he'd painted them, yes, they were undeniably beautiful. But, now that she thought about it, she couldn't remember if the _way_ he had painted it was accurate. Y/N had never walked through the market and seen it in this light, in the way Loki seemed to. Yes, the village centre is exciting and alive, people bustling around like blood cells through a massive, beating heart--- but it's also loud. And crowded, and stifling hot during the summer months.

No, Y/N wouldn't call it _beautiful_.

But the way the prince saw it, that _was_ beautiful.

Without Y/N noticing, said prince had crossed the room while she'd been contemplating his question, and written something on a scrap of parchment. 

She glanced sideways at him, hoping he didn't know she was tracing the arch of his shoulderblades pressing against his light linen shirt, or the curve of his torso stooped to lean on the countertop with her eyes. 

When he'd finished writing, the prince brought the slip over to Y/N and held it out to her. The words inscribed in glistening ink were foreign to Y/N's eyes, although clearly in her language.

"I'm showing you this room because I want to add a task to your workload, if that is okay."

Y/N blinked at him. "Of course."

"It involves leaving the palace, and a short walk. Alfdis won't mind; if she asks you where you're going just tell her you're running an errand for me."

Giving a little nod of her head and hoping her cheeks weren't as red as they felt, Y/N took the list from the prince's out-stretched hand.

"These are pigments," he explained, tapping the parchment Y/N was still trying to decipher with the pad of one long, slender finger. "I use them to make paint. I'd like you to go to the apothecary stall in the centre of the market. Give the man this list and he'll give you some things in jars and boxes. This should more than cover it." Smoothly dipping into his trouser pocket, he drew out several coins, thick and gold, and found Y/N's free hand, pressing the metal disks into the centre of her palm and closing her fingers around them. His skin was cool like the water on a pond. "Tell Frode he can keep the change."

Y/N nodded again. She prayed to the Allfather that he'd mistake her lack of words for attentiveness rather than what it actually was; a slight daze. She'd never been in possession of so much money in her life. And the _prince_ wanted _her_ to run a personal errand. _Y/N._

Loki had started walking to the door now, and Y/N did her best to follow, willing her legs into motion. "I used to put in orders and wait for them to be delivered, but this will be much faster," Loki said, although Y/N wasn't sure why. He didn't need to explain himself to her. She hadn't even asked; its as though he can sense her questions, reach into her brain and pluck them out.

...

Once Y/N was on the other side of the door the prince closed it, leaving it unlocked again. Y/N wondered whether---had she known before that it had been unlocked this whole time---she would have had the gall to take a quick peek inside during all those hours where she'd been left here alone. She decided that she wouldn't have. Or wouldn't have wanted to. The prince had stopped seeming like a prince with every day that passed by. He'd become a living, breathing person that Y/N didn't want to disappoint.

"You can buy the pigments in the morning and then bring them to work with you. Just leave them somewhere in the study, I don't mind where. Here." He dipped into that pocket again and brought out another coin.

Y/N reached out for it this time, having assumed he'd forgotten an item he wanted her to purchase, but he said instead, casually:

"For your troubles."

The back of Y/N's neck heated, her jaw opening and closing several times before she managed to push out: "Alfdis already pays me."

Loki's expression faltered and his tongue moistened his narrow lips. It was pointed and pink like a raspberry. He seemed flustered, perhaps that is why he'd tried to be casual when giving Y/N the money. He knew he's just made her slightly rich, that single gold disk is worth several week's payments at least, and he knew that that could be considered insulting; flaunting his wealth in front of someone who had virtually nothing. He actually scratched behind his neck, pale eyes avoiding Y/N's for the first time since they'd met. "I don't need it. Take it."


	5. Chapter 5

The people Y/N works with fall into two categories: those who she definitely knew to be thieves, and those who probably _were_ thieves but hadn’t been caught yet. Because of this, Y/N deemed her quarters an unsafe place to store the money the prince had given her. It is not uncommon in the servant’s quarters for needy, desperate people to rummage through their colleague’s things in search of something to sell or keep for themselves. Any item placed in the chest at the foot of Y/N’s cot, or atop her bedside table would surely be at risk of snaffling. Thus, Y/N decided to keep the money on her person until it was spent---although she didn’t know what she’d do with her share.

Owning extra cash is an utterly alien experience to Y/N. It would be safest to exchange it for goods as quickly as possible, she knew that for sure; items are harder to get away with stealing than a coin. It’s far less likely she’ll be robbed if her treasure is in the form of… of what? What does she _want?_

If someone had asked her that this time last year she would have said a decent coat, to stave off the early morning chill while she mops the palace steps. But she isn’t mopping the palace steps anymore. She only leaves the warm embrace of indoors if she _wants_ to, now. If it’s chilly she simply doesn’t go out.

Her first choice would be to send it straight to her parents with her other earnings, but then they’d want to know where she’d gotten it. They’d never believe it had been a personal gift from the prince himself; they’d assume she’d been fired and stooped to pickpocketing like so many other people in their social class. They didn’t even know she’d been promoted; they wouldn’t have believed that either.

She’d like to try a hobby. Loki made painting look _very_ appealing, but Y/N knew she neither had the time or patience to produce something as breathtaking as the prince seems to be able to do. And, judging by the amount Loki had given her for his pigments, she would not be able to afford the equipment with this coin alone. She briefly considered embroidery, but, seeing as she has to repair her own uniform whenever it tears, sewing has mostly lost its charm.

Jewellery was the next idea to pop into Y/N’s head. She’d pushed it away at first---someone of her station wearing _jewellery_ , the very idea---

But if it was tasteful, not too audacious...Y/N knew people who wore it, after all. She’d seen small, delicate little necklaces about a few of her peer’s necks, lockets in memory of the deceased, family heirlooms, coming of age presents, etcetera. And a few of the other maids and kitchen staff have had their ears pierced. Their earrings are not pearls, definitely not gold, or even silver, far from it, but Y/N admired them all the same. With her coin, she could probably ask the apothecary to pierce her ears, _and_ purchase a pair of little dangly hooks to fill the holes. And no one would be able to steal them because they’d always be on her person.

…

Y/N combed the servants dining hall for Alfdis as soon as she’d left Loki’s quarters, the money he’d given her clutched tightly in her hand, and the hand stuffed deep in her pocket. She hadn’t forgotten what the prince had said---about knowing Alfdis---and she wanted to know what he’d meant. The head housekeeper had never mentioned being affiliated with the youngest son of Odin---but she’d also never mentioned anything else about her long and complex life either.

Eventually, Y/N found the top of Alfdis’s head bobbing about through the crowd of hungry staff waiting to be served whatever salt-filled concoction Ylva was hoping to pass off as food. Nudging and excusing her way towards the older woman took so long that by the time Y/N had reached her she had been served and taken a seat. She was picking at something grey on her tray cautiously with the prongs of her fork when Y/N slipped onto the bench opposite her.

Alfdis’ face broke out into a friendly smile as if Y/N was one of her children paying her an unexpected visit. “Hello, dear. Sleep better last night? Your eyes look much brighter.”

Y/N looked momentarily confused and then remembered her earlier lie and waved off Alfdis’ concerns distractedly. “Yes, much better, thank you. I wanted to ask you; Loki---his majesty,” Y/N hastily corrected after Alfdis flicked her a warning look, “---said he knew you. Is that true?”

She didn’t know what she expected Alfdis’ reaction to be to this sudden line of questioning. Maybe a vague nod and a ‘Yes, we have bumped into each other several times in hallways, and such.’ She hadn’t anticipated the older woman’s smile to turn into a fond beam, a haze of nostalgia to cloud her friendly eyes.

“Know him? I practically raised him---that nurse honestly was a disgrace, the poor thing spent most of his time unsupervised, you know---”

Shocked: “You never _said_ you’d met him.”

“You never asked.” Alfdis’s bony little shoulders rose in a shrug. She spooned some of the grey stuff into her mouth and bit back a grimace. “Ylva is a disgrace too, if you ask me. I’d let her go if I wasn’t so terrified of her---”

Y/N’s jaw was still hanging open so far it nearly dragged on the table, and Alfdis smiled, using one finger curled under Y/N’s chin to push it shut. “Y/N, you can’t work here as long as I have and not run into your employers. I still see him, occasionally. We meet for a tray of tea, for old times sake, but not very often. You see, I knew him most when he was much, much younger."

For once, Y/N was glad of the older woman’s tendency to spill endless strings of words like a magician tugging an infinite chain of handkerchiefs from a hat. Y/N collected them up, leaning forwards eagerly so much that she could feel the edge of the tabletop pressing into her ribs.

“A little scrap of a thing, he was, especially next to his brother. Roughly the same age but half the size, the young prince was. In width, mind you---he’s always been tall---but thin, very thin. Although he ate enough, I made sure of that. I’d sneak him things from the kitchen to fatten him up. Didn’t work, of course, just look at him.” She trailed off, here, pausing to force another bite of grey into her mouth.

Y/N used this opportunity to ask: “Why didn’t you ever say anything? Especially when you knew I’d be working for him.”

The glow faded behind Alfdi’s kind old eyes, her expression becoming serious now. A twinge of guilt clenched the centre of Y/N’s chest at sounding so accusatory, even though she had a right to, she told herself.

“I mean,” Y/N continued, trying to soften her tone in an attempt to come off as more friendly and curious, “---how can you have basically _raised_ the royal princes and no one know about it?”

Another rise and fall of those bony shoulders. Alfdis had clearly called it a loss with the grey, because she was now turning her tray around, probably with the intent of tackling the heap of brown on the other side. “A few people knew--- it’s not as though it's a secret---but they all left for other employment; or died, in some cases. I was younger at the time, this was some years ago---you should know, you’re about the same age. And it wasn’t ‘the princes’ plural; young Thor never really paid me much mind. He was always off with his friends or tormenting his poor mother and father.”

She was staring off into the distant corner of the mess hall, stirring up old memories or trying not to look at what she was eating, Y/N wasn’t sure. “I didn’t tell you I was familiar with the young prince because you didn’t ask. And it didn’t feel right to; he’s a very private fellow. Of course, you’ve met him now, so you already know him, but before---it felt wrong, telling anyone else about him without his knowledge.” Alfdis dragged her gaze back to Y/N to give her a look. “You know that feeling, I’m sure.’

Y/N dipped her head to the table and ran the pad of her thumb along a crack in the wood. A crumb of some long-forgotten meal was wedged in the centre of it, and she made a feeble attempt at prying it free with her nail.

“You’ve been speaking to him?” Alfdis asked in that old-woman way; laced with wisdom and a hint of a smile that suggested the question had been mainly rhetorical. She already knew the answer. She probably knew Y/N had a massive, festering crush on him too, no doubt.

“ _He_ spoke to _me_ , really. About cleaning. And some things he wants me to pick up from the market for him. Nothing like your relationship with him, I can’t believe you raised him---”

“Well, ‘raised’ might be a bit of a strong word. More like ‘occasionally stole him a leg of lamb or gave him little chores to do when he was bored while his brother was off training to be king’.” Her expression hardened again, that graveness creeping back into the wrinkles of her face, making it look suddenly more ancient than it ever had been. “Y/N, I didn’t want to tell you about His Royal Highness because he is just _that_. Telling you about him would have made him seem...well, like you or me. Common. Working-class. You need to remember that he’s not that, Y/N, he’s a member of the royal family---second in line to the throne. I didn’t want to build an image in your head of an approachable, relatable man because he isn’t; he’s an out of reach sovereign. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you?”

She’d delivered her warning kindly, but Y/N suddenly found herself wanting to leave. She understood what Alfdis was saying; she was hinting at the fact that Y/N needs to remember her place. A prince---Loki---would (and could) not be with, or even be friends with someone of Y/N’s station.

The housekeeper was right, of course, but Y/N felt nettled all the same and stood. “I understand.”

Alfdis watched her rise to her full height, Y/N would say sadly. She must know, on some deep, fundamental level; she must have a sense that what she’d said had hit home---and her old little heart was swelling with sympathy.

“I should be getting some supper.” Y/N gestured over her shoulder at the winding and slightly disorganised queue still snaking down one side of the dining hall that she’d have to jo

Alfdis called after her as she disappeared into the crowd:

“Don’t get the grey stuff, it tastes like sawdust.”

…

Y/N’s mood had improved considerably as she stepped out of the palace gates the next morning and set off in the direction of the local market. The weather was pleasant, for a stark; sunlight falling in lumps through patches in soft-looking clouds, the breeze just enough to dust off the cobwebs of the week. She’d also just purchased her first set of earrings, and the anticipation of being able to wear them made excitement bubble in her chest like a fizzy drink.

Spending her coin had not been as difficult as she had assumed it would be. She’d slept with them all under her pillow, one hand slipped below it to clutch them protectively. When she woke up, her hand had been marked with little grooved lines where the smooth edges had pressed into her skin. Holding them had reminded her of all the good that had cropped up in her life recently; like mushrooms on a damp log. Her workload is light, her employer is gracious, and she’s off to run an errand that he trusts only to her.

She’d thought she’d be reluctant about parting with the gold’s reassuring weight, but handing it over to the kindly woman behind the till had been unexpectedly easy. Of course, it did help that as she gave the money away with one hand, her first set of jewellery was placed in the other.

The earrings are made of some kind of silver metal---in Y/N’s budget but good quality, the seller had assured her---each one a tiny green jewel framed by a disk of steel or nickel. Obviously, it’s not a real jewel, it’s just a minuscule dot of coloured glass, but Y/N loved them all the same. 

Once she had them she set off to find the apothecary, to fetch Loki’s pigments and use her change to pay him to make two small holes in her earlobes for her new earrings.

…

Finding the apothecary took a little longer than Y/N anticipated. She’d never visited it before---because she’d been very lucky in the fact that she rarely got sick, and never enough to warrant medicine---but mostly because she couldn’t afford whatever it was that was sold there.

The other reason for her struggle was the fact that the stalls are tightly knitted and densely packed, like the comb of a beehive, and stuffed with people. She actually walked right past it at first, without realising; the thick crowd having blocked her view.

When Y/N _did_ find the correct stall (well, found it again) she had to wait for what must have been half an hour as a line of other patrons were served before her. She didn’t mind, though; it was somewhat fascinating listening to their requests. Y/N made a little game of it in her head; she’d try to guess what would be handed to each customer when they asked for funny-sounding things she couldn’t even begin to pronounce. Most of the time she’d get it wrong; assume something was a herb when it was a small vial of liquid, or mistake a flower for a type of bean.

Eves dropping on the instructions that came with each item was interesting too, as well as slightly boggling. Y/N understood ‘mix’ and ‘apply’ and ‘rub’ but words like ‘reflux’ and ‘precipitate’ left her head aching.

As the line of people dwindled and her view of the stall improved, Y/N got a more solid idea of what an apothecary actually was. She already knew that it sells raw ingredients for various things, mainly with medicinal purposes, but she’d never really thought about just how _many_ things could be used as medicine. The stall is comprised of literally nothing but shelves; each weighed down with a multitudinous array of glass jars. Inside the jars were multicoloured fine powers, bead-like seeds, soil-freckled beans, knobbly, twisted roots, squidgy, pail things submerged in yellow liquids that Y/N didn’t even want to look at---

Finally, she found herself at the head of the queue. There were two people behind the till, an older gentleman barley the same height as the worktop he served people from, and a younger man around Y/N’s age with straw-blonde hair and a narrow face. The older man’s moustache wriggled as he gave Y/N a friendly smile in greeting. She liked his thick glasses and the way he swatted his floppy flour-coloured hair away from the lenses distractedly as if they were a slightly irritating swarm of bees.

Returning his good-natured demeanour, Y/N placed the list the prince had given her down on the counter along with the little stack of coins. Before she’d even opened her mouth, the man’s moustache wriggled again, the corners turning up.

“Ah, you must be Y/N.” His voice was bouncy. Y/N could imagine the words jumping from his mouth and hopping around the shelves, knocking various jars and glasses to the floor in their excitement.

Taken aback: “Yes. How did you know?” For one embarrassing second, she wondered whether apothecaries were magic in any way.

“Don’t look so alarmed.” He’d taken the list now, his magnified eyes sliding over the curves of Loki’s swooping letters. “The prince told me you would be picking up his pigments from now on. Thank you for that, by the way, saves me trudging up all those steps to the palace.” 

List still in hand, the shop owner---who Y/N guessed to be Frode---took a small wooden box much like the ones littering the prince’s studio and began hunting about under the counter. He reminded Y/N of a mole or perhaps a gopher digging a hole underground. When he surfaced, the box was full of blood-red chalky lumps of what Y/N assumed to be a soft type of rock. It looked nice to touch.

Before he could duck back down to retrieve the next pigment, Y/N asked quickly:

“Do you pierce ears?” She didn’t know where people usually go to do such a thing, but she figured a medicine man would be a good a place as any. Most women probably do it themselves; heat up a needle---but Y/N didn’t trust herself. She’d considered it, while she was stitching up a hole in the toe of one of her socks she’d eyed the needle and wondered whether she had the guts to push it through the lobe of her own ear; but reached the conclusion that she didn’t. She’d probably hold it to her head then pass out from the thought of it.

Frode gave Y/N another bristle-filled smile. “My apprentice can do that for you while I hunt around for the rest of His Highness' supplies.” He noticed Y/N’s eyes flick to the straw-haired young man currently handing a vial of something green to woman at the other side of the stall. “Arne is very capable; you’re in good hands.”

Arne up at the mention of his name and waved Y/N over with one large hand. She went to him timidly, following his wide shoulders to the back of the stall where a three-legged stool squatted squarely on the ground by a table dotted with various equipment a medical man might need when treating or diagnosing a patient. The apprentice motioned to the stool and Y/N took a seat, tucking her limbs in tight to her body protectively; she feared if she gave her legs too much reign they’d drag her back onto her feet and run for the hills---if they could run, that is. Her muscles seemed to have turned to whatever that brown stuff Ylva had severed at dinner yesterday evening was.

Y/N was contemplating trying to return the earrings and getting her money back when Arne’s voice broke her stupor:

“It doesn’t hurt that much, I promise. I’ve pierced hundreds of ears and only one person has ever cried, but she was just a littl'un so I don’t blame her.” He’d been smiling as he spoke, the dash of freckles on his cheeks pushed higher up his face, making his eyes into crescent moon shapes.

A little soothed by the surprising softness of Arne’s voice, Y/N watched attentively as he started fetching the things he’d need. As he rubbed something over both his hands---to clean them, Y/N assumed---he asked:

“Do you have some earrings to fill the holes with?”

Y/N nodded, her chest admittedly feeling like it was stuffed with tissue paper, and held out her hand. The two little silver hooks with their dangling green droplets of glass sat daintily in the safety of her palm, and she felt the apprentice gently take one from her between his wide forefinger and thumb.

“These are very pretty,” he complimented, kneeling down in front of Y/N now. She couldn’t tell if he meant it or if he could sense her frayed nerves and was trying to use kindness to mat them back together.

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to count to three, but I won’t do it on three, it’ll be a surprise.” He was so close, Y/N could see the little bursts of amber in his sea-foam-coloured eyes. “It'll hurt less that way. Okay?”

“Okay,” Y/N forced out of her tissue-paper lungs, her tone sounding as wobbly as her muscles felt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys think Loki knows he's a frost giant rn?


	6. Chapter 6

Frode and Arne let Y/N stay perched on the little stool around the back of their stall for as long as she needed, which turned out to be seventeen minutes. 

Arne had been gentle and competent, piercing one ear and then the other, keeping to his word of making each thrust forwards with the needle a surprise. It hadn’t hurt a huge amount, he’d told the truth about that, it was the thought of _what he_ _was_ _doing_ that made Y/N feel as though her blood had been replaced with melted snow.

Seeing her reflection in the spotted hand-held mirror he’d left on the table for her was a good distraction. When she’d felt strong enough to support her own weight, she’d tottered over like a baby giraffe to the desk and took a look at herself.

The earrings looked larger than they’d felt in her hands, now that they were dangling from her lobes, the sunlight lightning them up from the inside as if there were tiny tea lights wedged within the glass. Y/N’s stomach had turned over in a rather undignified summersault at this---she hadn’t wanted to look like she was flaunting anything---but it soon settled as he grew used to the change. With her somewhat shabby work clothes she looked far from a _Lady;_ but not too far. The calluses and cracks in her hands, the stains in her uniform, the drab colours of its fabric were less noticeable; the earrings seemed to catch your attention and drag it up to Y/N’s face.

When Y/N felt solid enough to resume her day, she made her way to the front of the stall where a little pile of packages was waiting for her. Frode had finished shuffling about his multitudinous stock for the prince’s pigments and returned to serving whoever was next in line.

 _Most_ of the pigments seemed to come in wooden boxes but a few also came in glass vials as slender as Y/N’s pinkie finger, all containing so much colour they appeared to have no colour at all, just a thick, inky blackness. Frode being busy, Arne helped Y/N transfer the boxes and jars to a cotton bag she always kept stuffed in her pocket for just such an occasion.

Arnie’s almond-shaped eyes shamelessly swept over Y/N’s face as he presented her with the handles of her now-full tote. It made her cheeks heat. He hadn’t gazed at her improperly, and there was no sign of malice or ill-intent; he’s large and lanky, with long limbs and strong hands, but essentially harmless. He was just a man, shyly looking at a woman and finding the curve of her jawline or the sweep of her hair aesthetically pleasing.

It came as no surprise to Y/N when he complimented her one last time on her newly pierced ears, although this time he used the word ‘beautiful’. She hoped he would not ask her to accompany him on an evening walk, or to join him for a meal, because although he was rather attractive, undoubtedly clever, and would be a good suitor for Y/N, she did not find herself interested. Maybe she would have been, once upon a time, but now her heart felt as though it was elsewhere, despite her attempts to wrangle it back in again.

…

Y/N’s ears were still throbbing as she turned the key in the thick door separating Loki’s chambers from the main part of the palace a little later that day. The pain had dulled from a sharp twinge to a low, warm ache, much more manageable and, if anything, a little annoying rather than sore. She assumed she would soon forget it as she goes about her usual tasks.

Before she began working, though, she tentatively approached the study, the bag of boxes and vials from the apothecary clutched in one hand. The prince had given her specific instructions to leave them in this room, and yet many months of avoiding it made feeling discomfort as she crossed the threshold a hard habit to break.

The studio was as it had been the day before. Y/N had knocked softly on the door before pushing it open, half of her hoping to find the prince inside stooped over a new and breathtaking masterpiece, and the other half mentally willing the space to be vacant. Alfdis’s warning the previous day lay in a dusty corner of her mind; it had holed up and made camp there, an ever-present reminder of her place, and of the risk she was taking of allowing herself to even hope about becoming close to Odin’s youngest son at all. Y/N should leave him be, for the good of her own feelings; they would undoubtedly be shattered at one point or another, by the prince himself pushing her friendship away, disgusted, or by someone else dragging _her_ away metaphorically or physically. If a guard had walked in yesterday, while she’d questioned Loki directly---as if they were old friends---Y/N would have had one or several of her limbs roughly grabbed and used to tug the rest of her treacherous, lowly body to the dungeons.

Despite this, despite everything, Y/N still hesitated before leaving the studio. She liked it there, and her eyes were hungry for the hopeful light the painting atop the easel offered. She wanted to look at it again, to trace the minuscule, well-practised brush strokes, for her gaze to absorb the full, lavish colours. She let it, even though she shouldn’t. The paint was almost dry now, some parts were still oily and slick but others had hardened, giving the picture a soft, mellow sort of feel. Y/N liked it better that way. She found it clever how the prince must have known the changes each colour would go through, and chose which ones to use accordingly.

The view from the windows was tempting too; she’d never been this far from the ground before; not with a view of the East of Asgard rather than the North, anyway, so when her curious feet padded over to the windows she didn’t intercept their path. She hadn’t paid the view much mind, last time. She hadn’t paid much attention to the line of cabinets below it either. Their doors were closed but Y/N could guess what was inside based on the little shavings of wood dusted like a fine powder over this particular corner of the room. This must be where he makes the frames of stretched cloth to paint upon. Y/N couldn’t imagine the prince sawing lines of wood himself---his slender, delicate hands as soft as swan’s feathers---but the fact that he preferred to create his own canvases to paint on came as no surprise.

Y/N set her cotton bag down amongst the little curls of wood because she couldn't see else that wasn’t stained or littered with something or other. As she placed the boxes and vials down neatly on the countertop she dared to take a look inside a few of them, easing the lids off in case their contents had shifted during her walk from the market. Most of them were identical to the chalky lump of red in the first box, just in different colours like mustard-seed-yellow and an ochre the same crisp orange as an autumn leaf, but a few of the boxes just held little white rocks and another was just full of coal.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” A voice from behind her sounded, and she nearly dropped a box she was studying. It was the one full of cobalt-coloured nuggets of a crumbly substance, and Y/N was utterly transfixed by the depth and richness of their colour.

Y/N only just managed to cling onto the box, the mental image of whatever the blue blobs were spattering over the ground scaring her so much she was almost gripping the container for comfort. Somehow she knew that the prince was referring to the blue lumps that had very nearly ended up on his hardwood floorboards rather than the view from the windows. Of course he'd appreciate the subtle shade of a single colour more than the more obvious horizon. 

Scrabbling for something to say, Y/N nodded her head quickly and moistened her lips. The prince inadvertently made her mouth bone dry, but as soon as he stands too close the opposite happens; as if Y/N was looking at a particularly succulent piece of food.

She hadn’t thought he’d be here. Yesterday, he’d asked her to leave the pigments in his study for him to find and use later when she’d long since vacated his chambers. “I’m sorry,” she said, for some reason still clutching the box of blue to her chest. She was reluctant to part with it. She’d never seen anything like it before in her life. “I didn't know you needed the pigments so quickly. If I'd have known I wouldn't have---"

The words caught in her throat as the prince stepped closer, having crossed the room in a few lazy, meandering strides as if he had all the time in the world. He probably does have all the time in the world, now that Y/N thinks about it. Rushing must be a foreign concept to him.

He’s so close now Y/N can smell that scent he wears, its citrusy tang flowing down the back of her throat and prickling her tongue as if she could taste it. It doesn’t match the bottle on the dresser completely, there’s something else there, something...Loki. Masculine. He smells like a male and it made Y/N’s head feel lighter than air.

Y/N hadn’t seen the prince reach out towards her, but now he was cupping her left ear lobe with one large, milk-white hand. It felt cool against her burning skin, almost cold, even. Like pressing ice wrapped in a towel to a bruised knee. It was soothing, and Y/N fought the urge to lean into it as he regarded her new earrings curiously, turning them gently with the pad of his thumb, watching the light grab and release them. The colour of his eyes shifted from mossy green to sky blue as he tilted his head, just like the bead of glass. 

"You got your ears pierced."

By this point, Y/N wasn’t surprised that he’d noticed. He’s probably noticed the pulse flurrying like a caged bird where the back of one of his fingers is brushing the side of Y/N’s head as well. 

A lump like the screwed up balls of parchment surrounding the waste bin had formed in Y/N’s throat at the prince’s proximity and she nodded, trying to swallow around it but that just made it worse.

“Did it hurt?” His lips aren’t as thin up close. His cheekbones aren’t as sharp either. She’d thought he was all hard angles but he’s actually all long, drawn-out curves. Like the brush strokes in his paintings, or the sketched lines of charcoal in his drawings.

She wanted to shake her head but the thought of leaving Loki’s grip made her remain still, and her throat to push out some words instead: “A little.”

A faint hint of a smile was tugging the muscles around one side of the prince's mouth. “Green suits you.” He released her, oxygen flowing into Y/N’s lungs and filling her chest.

She realised she’d forgotten to breathe. “Thank you.” Her voice was higher than she would have liked it to be, but at least she’d managed to push something from her treacherous body. She looked down at her hands still grasping the box of blue. She was gripping it so hard the tips of her fingers had gone pale.

“I'd like you to help me with something." The prince had picked up just over half of the little vials and containers stacked on the counter and crossed the room, although Y/N had no idea how he’d done it so quickly, and without her noticing. He was now kneeling on the floor by a low, circular table on the other side of the studio, his long legs neatly folded below his body, despite the hard floor."Could you take the rest?"

Y/N winced to think of his delicate, ice-white bones below all six-foot-two of his bodyweight and distracted herself by gathering up the remaining pigments. Her hands were not nearly large enough to encompass them all, but luckily she had the good sense to make use of the bag she’d brought them here in.

...

The table Loki sat at, or, rather, crouched at, was tidier than the rest of the room---more organised---although maybe this was an illusion created by the fact that it was less crowded than most of the other flat surfaces.

No, as Y/N tentatively stepped closer she noticed more and more subtle signs of order; most of the bowls had been slotted into each other to create little stacks, there were small wooden boxes and glass jars lined up along one side of the table, lids and caps all firmly in place. There were also very few paint stains in this corner of the room, instead, it resembled the spice stall at the market; fire-work like eruptions of colourful powers blemished the table and surrounding floorboards. Y/N guessed these must be from the colourful chalky rocks and powdery lumps of clay Frode had put into the little wooden boxes.

Loki watched Y/N expectantly as she got closer, then gave the space next to him a small pat. He’d tugged a plush-looking velvet pillow out from below the table, the paleness of his skin contrasting with its colour-freckled material as he offered it to her, clearly with the intent that she join him. He shouldn’t be offering her the cushion; she should have gotten into a crawling position and offered herself up as a chair.

But he smiled encouragingly when, swallowing, Y/N lowered herself to crouch at his side, the pillow softening the solidness of the floor below her knees. Despite being at least a fifteenth of the size, it was more comfortable than her bed. Blushing, she opened her mouth to thank him but the prince he had already moved on, taking something smooth and round in his hands from the middle of the table.

Y/N recognised it as a pestle and mortar.

“Have you used one of these before?” Loki asked.

He’d set the pigments he’d carried over down along his side of the table in a sort of half-horseshoe shape, leaving a small space in front of himself to work in. Y/N guessed that’s what they would be doing---some sort of work---and mimicked him, taking the boxes and vials from her tote one by one and arranging them on her side of the table.

“Yes,” she said, liking how this made his face light up with obvious approval. It encouraged her to continue: “I sometimes used to have to grind nuts when I worked in the kitchens.”

Loki placed the pestle and mortar down between them and plucked up one of the wooden boxes and eased off the lid with his slender fingers. Inside was the blue Y/N had been admiring, and she couldn’t help wondering if he’d known that it was her favourite and selected it first for this reason. Of course he hadn't. “This will be a little different to crushing nuts,” the prince explained, tipping one corner of the box gently so several lumps of blue fell into the mortar. They left cobalt scuffs on the sides of the box; they really were made of a very fine powder.

Curious to see what it was he was about to teach her next, Y/N shuffled closer to the table. This must be the process of making paint, she noted.

“You only have to press with the pestle very gently, but for longer, until there are no clumps left whatsoever. Understand?” He hadn’t meant ‘did she understand what it was she had to do’, he meant ‘had she figured out that this was to be another task added to her list of responsibilities’.

“Okay,” Y/N said, finding her voice a little now. Loki is like standing under a waterfall; he sucks the air from her lungs at first, but, once she’d acclimated, his effect was pleasant and refreshing. She wanted to please him, and it gave her little thrills of something close to excitement that she was to play a direct part in the creation of his art.

He transferred the mortar and pestle to Y/N’s hands, sitting back on his haunches to watch what she would do with them.

She should feel pressured, really; a prince trusting her with something so dear to him, his pale eyes following her movements and assessing her skill. But she doesn’t. His gaze is passive and his nature patient as Y/N---somewhat---clumsily pushed the smooth edge of the pestle into the lumps of blue. They turned out to be softer than she’d expected, the pestle sliding through their malleable shape with ease. She tried to recall the circular movement Ylva had taught her back in the kitchens, grinding the blue against the centre of the mortar. 

She nearly threw the whole thing across the room as the prince’s palms slipped over to cover the backs of her hands.

His touch was cool like ice cream. There was a strength there, magnificent power behind the gentle way he started guiding her movements.

She let him. Because of course she did.

“Like this,” he offered, not really correcting her, just showing her an alternative way of doing what she was already doing. It worked much better, Loki’s hand over Y/N’s that was curled around the pestle pushing it in wide circles, using the sides of the mortar to scrape the blue pigment continuously all the way around. “It doesn’t need to be crushed, like nuts and seeds, it needs to be ground.” His mouth is so close to Y/N’s ear his breath brushed the arch of its shell.

A shiver skittered its way along every disk in her spine.

“It’s already a powder, it’s just got bunched up into lumps. All we are doing is returning it back to powder again.”

After a few more clockwise turns of the mortar, he relinquished his grip on Y/N’s hands. They’d been cold, but---somehow---they felt _colder_ without the contact.

Y/N could feel his eyes still resting on the side of her face as she continued to make those circular movements. It brought a strange sense of serenity, massaging the blue about the round, heavy pot supported by her other hand.

She kept doing this, pushing the crumbs about until they reduced to half the size, then a quarter, then into nothing but minuscule grains free of clumps, smooth as dust in a desert.

When all of the blue reached this stage, after a surprisingly long time of mushing it about, Loki took the mortar back and poured the contents into one of the wooden bowls that sat stacked and waiting at the far end of the table. Then he took something from a basket on the floor by his other side. Y/N hadn’t paid it much mind, she’d been too distracted by other things---mainly the fact that, today, Loki was wearing a rather low V-neck that showed off a wondrous amount of collarbone---but now that she saw the contents of the basket she tilted her head in confusion.

It was full of eggs.

“What are those for?” She asked before she could even think to stop herself. She watched the prince as he cracked the egg expertly into a second bowl, leaving the sunshine-yellow orb of the yolk in one half of the shell. This seemed to be the part he intended to use because he pushed the bowl holding the white away, and brought back the now-crushed blue pigment.

He was smiling, probably finding her ignorance amusing. “I mix the yolk with the pigment and water to create a paste. When I paint it onto the canvas it dries, but the protein and colour remains.” Still in no hurry, he let Y/N sit by his side as he did this, stirring the mixture until it actually resembled the stodgy, glistening, gooey substance an artist could actually use to make art with. It was a simple, methodological process and Y/N couldn’t help an elated light come to her eyes when the prince asked her to start preparing another pigment.

She was helping him. 

...

Y/N had been crushing the lumps of mustard yellow when Loki said quietly:

“Your hands are softer now.” If Y/N didn’t know any better, she would have said he sounded shy. “Is working inside the palace suiting you?” He’d had his focus lowered to the cobalt blue paint he was still mixing, adding a droplet of water every now and again from a glass jar by his right hand, but he raised his head now to look at Y/N inquisitively.

“Yes,” She felt her heart do a sort of fluttery thing, as if it had suddenly sprouted wings and was testing them out in her chest, the tips tickling the insides of her ribs as they brushed against the ridges of bone. “Very much. Thank you...Sir.” She’d added it even though it felt awkward and clunky. She’d never called him that before, even though she should have been too intimidated by his very presence _not_ to.

But he’s not intimidating, he’s actually one of the few sources of serenity this damned castle has, with all its complicated, needless social rules, and servants running all around the place doing whatever it is they’d just been ordered to do.

It made the prince laugh, his teeth all exposed and that wonderful, magical sound rolling up from his torso. “‘Loki’ is fine. You‘ve seen where I sleep, where I paint, and where I dress each morning; we might as well be on a first-name basis.” Were his cheekbones flushed pastel pink? Or was that Y/N’s hopeful imagination? “I've been calling you Y/F/N. Would you prefer Y/L/N?" 

_‘You can call me whatever the Hel you like,’_ Y/N thought but didn’t say out loud as she ground at a particularly stubborn clump of yellow. “I like Y/N.” She did, when he said it. The syllables rolled nicely off the point of his pink tongue. 


	7. Chapter 7

They'd sat like that for several hours, Y/N crushing up colourful little rocks, and Loki mixing egg yolk into the resulting powder. Few words were passed across the small space between them---the prince didn't say much to Y/N, and Y/N was too _afraid_ to say anything to him---but the silence was comfortable like a thick blanket draped over their shoulders. 

Loki pointed out which colours he would like Y/N to grind up, explaining that they would only prepare what he intended to use within the next few days as the paint would quickly dry and become unworkable. The colours he would use later remained in their little wooden boxes stacked neatly along the other side of the table.

Had anyone else asked Y/N to sit for hours on end upon the floor, pressing rocks into a fine powder, she would have refused (or obeyed but grudgingly; depending on who had given the order). But, for some reason, she was more than happy to kneel next to the prince in silence, scraping crumbs of colour against the curved inside edge of a mortar. There was something therapeutic about it; soporific, almost. Drowsiness almost gripped Y/N several times; when the sun had begun to set, dowsing the quiet little studio in a soft hue somewhere between yellow and orange, long shadows falling across the floor in planks.

Luckily, small things kept her awake and focused; little metaphorical blades sharpening her senses:

The cool brush of Loki's fingers as she transferred the mortar of powder-fine pigment to his hands, or took it back once it had been emptied. The touch of his skin was like dipping the edge of your finger into a lake chilled by night air.

Every time he spoke. Y/N hungrily ate up each word he gave her, their meaning _and_ their sound. He didn't seem to need to breathe in to push words from his lungs; they just slipped out effortlessly, his tone low and idle; as if he was always filled with coiled sentences and, as he opened his mouth, they unravelled, falling from his lips. They filled Y/N's ears easily, where others would have to pile hundreds of syllables, Loki needed only to use a few and Y/N found herself satisfied, content to digest what he'd said throughout the stretches of silence between each small conversation.

They hadn't talked about anything, really. Loki handed Y/N a few facts or instructions about painting or making paint every now and again, to which Y/N listened attentively, which he seemed to like. He inquired about how Y/N's trip to the market went, whether he had given her enough money for the pigments he needed---she said she enjoyed it, and yes, that had been more than enough. He asked after the health of Frode, to which Y/N replied that he seemed chipper and that she liked his kind eyes. 

Mainly, though, they just quietly worked on the task at hand. That was something else that kept Y/N on her toes---so to speak---the innate fascination she had with what she was doing. Each colour was unmistakably beautiful, as if someone had taken the lush green of summer grass, the aquamarine hue of a curling wave, the electric yellow of a daffodil's petals, and made them into a workable, solid object to be manipulated at will. Converting these colours to a practical, malleable substance is, if you think about it, quite a surreal process.

...

It was half an hour before the realm fell into total darkness that their paint-making finally drew to a close. Neither Y/N or the prince seemed to have noticed that the sun had dripped down the horizon like a splash of orange juice, and was now pooling on the distant strip of ocean. Not until Y/N realised she could barely see the colour she was palpitating, and asked vacantly:

"Is this blue or purple?"

The prince's eyes had widened at this, and he took the box Y/N had been squinting at as if it was dangerous.

She panicked, then, her heart leaping to her mouth. Was that particular box dangerous? He'd handed it to her in the first place, no one had _warned_ her about it. Had she offended the prince with her ignorance, somehow? Had she finally crossed that inevitable line, that one she'd been toeing at with her lack of curtsying and all those times she'd forgotten to call him Sir? She was about to apologise---for what, she didn't know or care, just anything---was beaten to it:

"I'm so sorry," Loki stammered---s _tammered---_ just as Y/N opened her mouth to say the exact same thing. 

Y/N blinked, mental images of the prince's guards rushing to throw her out of the closest window extinguishing suddenly. He'd s _tammered---_

Heart still lodged between her teeth, Y/N choked around it: "Why?" Her eyes followed the prince's hands as they darted about the table. He'd started putting lids on things he didn't want to dry or spill, stacking empty boxes, collecting up eggshells, etcetera.

It finally registered in Y/N's mind that he was in the middle of a rather hurried effort to clean up.

"I shouldn't have kept you," he muttered, rising to his full height when the mortar had been pushed out of Y/N's reach; a final indication that their paint-making had truly drawn to a close. Even when flustered, even after hours of his long slender legs being folded and pressed into the ground below his body weight, the prince still stood with a graceful, tidy unfurling of limbs. Like a dragon arranging itself before flight.

"Kept me?" Y/N repeated dumbly, staring up at him with bemusement from her place still on the floor.

Realisation that he'd left her there for even a millisecond seemed to startle Loki _more_ , because he hastily extended a slender hand for Y/N to take, wanting to urge her up to his level as soon as possible.

Without thinking, Y/N accepted his outstretched palm, his bony fingers curling gently about her hand. She let him guide her into a standing position, then steadied her as blood returned to the lower half of her legs, flooding her nerve cells in a gushing wave of pins and needles.

The prince didn't let her go. He just stood there for as long as she needed, letting Y/N use him as a bolsterer. _Her._ Using a _Prince Of Asgard_ like he was a pillar to lean against, a crutch---

It made Y/N feel like a lady again, and it was terrifying.

What was also terrifying was the fact that, even while supporting Y/N's weight, the prince remained utterly, unmovingingly steady. Y/N hadn't expected that strength. He both looks and acts as though he weighs little more than the delicate cotton clothes draped over his willowy body. She'd almost anticipated the added weight of her on his sinewy arm to accidentally tug him back down to the floor.

But that hadn't happened. He'd pulled her up as easily as though she were a pretty flower he'd simply plucked from the ground. There's a mass to him, there must be, muscle---somewhere---and that thought made Y/N's chest do something stupid and fluttery.

"It's almost nightfall," Loki's voice had an edge of surprise, bringing Y/N from her reverie.

She hastily let go of his hand, feeling her palm had long since outstayed its welcome, nestled neatly in the cradle of the _prince's_ much larger one. "Is it?"

"You didn't notice? It's dark!" Loki was guiding Y/N from the studio, now, with a hand hovering over the small of her back. His strides are brisk and urgent, and Y/N was almost tempted to pretend she couldn't keep up, just so she could fall back a little and feel the comforting press of his hand. "I'm so sorry, why didn't you say anything?"

Y/N was still slightly baffled. "What should I have said?"

"That you're bored? Or at least asked me how much longer I planned to keep you here. Weren't you ever going to say anything?"

They'd reached the door now and Y/N turned back to face the prince, and shrugged. "It's not my place to say anything."

He winced as if she'd firmly stamped on his toe. "Y/N, you _can_ say something, I _want_ you to say something. I made you sit on the _floor_ for---" He did some mental maths before simply deciding: "---for _too_ _long_ , you _could have_ said something." His usually straight spine is bent at the top at the moment, like a leaf weighed down by heavy droplets of rain, as if his slender body is being crushed by guilt piled high on his shoulders.

Y/N tried to lift it off, to take it from him: "I wasn't on the floor," her tone light and airy, nonchalant because that's how she felt. She wished the moon would hurry up and lighten the room so the prince could see the gaiety written all over her face. "You gave me a pillow."

This made a tentative smile twitch one corner of Loki's lips, the hard set of his shoulders softening slightly. She didn't _sound_ angry with him. But still. "That's beside the point. I'll compensate you for your time, of course---" He dipped one hand in the pocket of his trousers and started fudging about, bringing out several small coins then rejecting them because they were not nearly large enough.

Y/N liked Loki's trousers. She'd been admiring them earlier (she'd been admiring _all_ of him earlier). They matched his shirt, a breezy, thin material so fine the paleness of his skin showed through the fabric, turning its deep clover shade to a lighter, subtle green; like the flesh of a kiwi. Most of his casual clothes are airy, they don't cling to his figure, just sort of hang around it, hang _off_ it. Especially this particular outfit. His trousers flare wider around his ankles so they drape low over his toes (he doesn't seem to like wearing shoes) and make a rustling sound as he walks. Like dragging your feet through a pile of autumn leaves.

When Loki finally found something he deemed worthy to present to Y/N for her troubles---a mammoth of a coin, the numbers indicating its value as large as the nail on Y/N's pinkie finger---he held it out as if he knew it wasn't enough but it was the closest he could get.

She pushed it away, the comforting solidness of the disk the same temperature as Loki's skin pressing into the pads of her fingers. She could buy her own house with that coin. "Assisting you is my job, you don't need to pay me extra for doing what I'm employed to do." That was one of the longest sentences she'd ever given him. He seemed torn between joy at her sudden talkativeness, and pained by what she was saying. Y/N had no idea why.

The prince ran his fingers backwards through his hair. The strands are so dark his face seems to be framed by a hole in the universe, as if someone had cut away at reality leaving nothing but a black void.

How do voids feel to touch, Y/N wondered.

His act of anxiety had left the void tousled like birds feathers ruffled by a storm.

Y/N just stared at it.

Loki must have mistaken her silence for tiredness or malcontent---or something---because he kept pouring more apologies over Y/N's head as she stood by the door. She was waiting for a break in his flow to insert a reminder that she'd come with cleaning supplies, and could she please have them back? Eventually, the prince figured this out himself because he dashed back inside to fetch them---uttering yet more variations of the word 'sorry' that Y/N hadn't even known existed.

When he transferred the handle of Y/N's mop to her hands she noticed the smooth wedge of his front teeth nibbling at his lower lip. It took all her strength not to reach out and free it.

She, instead, repeated things like 'Assisting you is my job' and 'This is what I'm paid for', but his features didn't truly soften until she shyly soothed:

"It was really no trouble, enjoyed it."

...

By the time Y/N had put the cleaning supplies in their cupboard and made her way to the mess hall, someone had been around to light the rows of waxen candles lining the otherwise bare walls of the servant's quarters. Their feeble glow lit up Y/N's hands and she was delighted to find colours staining her skin right up to her elbows.

She contemplated washing them before she joined her peers for her evening meal, but decided against it. The colours were too beautiful to remove on purpose, to do so would be a sin; like treading on a butterfly when you easily had time to step around it, or scribbling something vulgar on a statue someone had spent hours perfecting.

Whenever anyone inquired as to why it looked as though Y/N had been wrestling a rainbow, she simply replied with something vague and indecisive that really didn't answer the question at all. Partly due to her commitment of preserving the youngest prince's privacy, but also because---as childish as it was---Y/N would be lying if she claimed not to enjoy being seen as a mystery.

...

The next day, when Y/N delivered the prince's pigments to his studio, the easel was holding a brand new canvas.

This had come as quite a surprise. Even though the prince had _told_ her he _needed_ to use the paints they'd prepared right away, it hadn't actually occurred to Y/N that that meant he'd start a new picture so soon. Or that she'd get to see it. Loki's art is clearly very personal to him, a part of his life he obviously prefers to keep tucked away from the rest of the world. He'd painted the market place scene _at the market_ , so Y/N had just assumed his next piece would be constructed somewhere similar. She'd been utterly unprepared to walk into the studio and find a new canvas in place, the paint they'd mixed only the day before drying on the stretch of its cotton surface.

The new canvas held amorphous blobs of colour, and that is all. Y/N would later realise that this is how the prince starts all of his paintings; he lays sort of... shadows of colour, setting tones---like a foundation---for the rest of the picture. She hadn't realised this _yet_ , however, so spent several minutes just staring at the blobs and trying to piece them together in her mind. 

Then she remembered that she actually has a job she's supposed to be doing, and---reluctantly---left the studio to set about her usual tasks of mopping and sweeping.

Y/N wondered if they'd make any paints today. He clearly needed them, with a new picture in progress. 

But then again, yesterday, he'd seemed so afraid he'd upset her in some way. As if he'd felt... _at fault_ for taking advantage of her services; even though that is literally her job. His face had fallen when she'd rejected his offering of gold---in recompense for working her overtime. Maybe she should have taken it, just so he felt his debt had been repaid. She could easily have snuck it back and hidden it somewhere in his chambers the next day. Maybe he'd continue to make his own paint from now on.

As the hours dripped by, Y/N's worries set harder, like concrete drying in hot sun, until she was fairly convinced whatever magical thing had happened yesterday would not be happening again. 

...

Y/N was stooped over his dressing table, when Loki arrived, measuring the space between the bottle of scent and the base of the mirror, using the lines on her fingers to make sure she placed it back exactly as it had been before she'd lifted the decanter to wipe below it. She'd known Loki was behind her because suddenly the tangy smell of his cologne wasn't just drifting lazily from the stoppered bottle before her, but wrapping its way around her from every direction, citrusy, succulent fingers made of nothing but sweet-smelling air.

She couldn't help a smile gracing her lips as she turned to him, finding his curious pale eyes still on her hands. He must have been watching what she was doing because he said, the corner of his lip twitching:

"You don't need to do that you know."

He never says hello, Y/N realised. He just seems to...continue where their last conversation had left off, as if they'd never been apart. Y/N felt the back of her neck heat below her uniform. "I know." She remembered him plucking up the sketchbook on the bedside table and tossing it back down, seemingly indifferent to the scuff of charcoal now gracing its rear cover.

He was still staring at her and she felt herself continue, just as something to do:

"I just like to try my best. To say thank you for..." The promotion? The warm, cushy, comfortable working environment? The easy workload and daily strolls through the market? For letting her into one of the most private and intimate parts of his life? "For everything."

This made him smile. "Also unnecessary. But thank you. Your efforts have not gone unnoticed. Let it be known I have _tried_ to compensate you for the extra work you're putting on yourself." His smile curling into the amused hint of a smirk. "But you seem to be allergic to wages."

It's true, the prince had left her extra money, sometimes. More than sometimes, almost _every_ time, an extra little stack of coins next to the one Y/N was to use for his pigments during her trips to the market. And, every time, she'd left it alone. She couldn't really put her finger on why. It just didn't feel right; receiving tips even though she was doing significantly less work than her peers. The extra money would be useful, yes, oh, the things she could buy---

Her own food---which would offend Ylva but deeply please Y/N's digestive system and taste buds.

Sweets. Y/N had only been given sweets once, on the birthday marking her coming of age. Her parents had saved up for weeks and purchased a handful of hard candies wrapped in a handkerchief. They'd melted on Y/N's tongue, sticky and tart, and she'd remember the taste of them for as long as she lives. 

Rent. With the money the prince keeps trying to give her, and the rate in which he does so, Y/N could probably afford to move out of the servants quarters and into a quaint, one-room loft---at _least_.

"They're not wages," Y/N pointed out. She had long since realised the prince wouldn't bite her head off for talking back to him, or starting conversations or asking personal questions---in fact, he seemed to almost encourage all of those things. He actually appears most receptive and at ease whenever she addresses him as though he's a real, regular person. Y/N's goal---personal and professional---is to make the prince comfortable, and if being downright insubordinate achieves that (and doesn't get her killed) who is she to argue? That is why she felt (almost) confident when she added: "They're _bonuses._ Alfdis already pays me, the amount you keep attempting to give me on top of that is frankly absurd." She'd called a prince's generosity 'absurd'. If her mother was here she'd probably kiss Loki's bare toes in apology, then beat her daughter with a wooden spoon.

The prince, however, seemed to find Y/N's gumption rather humorous because he folded his narrow arms across his chest, arching one dark eyebrow. If he'd done that during their first meeting Y/N would have been certain the gallows waited for her for sure---but now she knows what it means. It's a challenge.

"You know, most people would have _stolen_ something from these rooms by now." He gestured at the space around them, literally littered with riches that could so easily be plucked from their shelves or countertops or wherever, and slipped into a pocket. "Not you, though." His eyes have narrowed to scrutinize Y/N's face, as if she was a picture that didn't quite make sense to him. "I leave you coins with the specific intent of _giving_ them to you, and you don't so much as look at them."

Y/N didn't know what to say to that. She just turned her attention back to wiping the flecks of dust from between the little trinkets scattered over the prince's desk. Yes, she had resumed her dutiful cleaning of his dressing table, even though doing so meant turning her back to the prince (something else that would have gotten her a hard paddling with a utensil had her mother been present). Loki didn't seem to mind, though. He simply sidestepped several paces to the left, angling himself back into Y/N's view as she went about her tasks.

"Why don't you let me give you anything?" He asked. His voice was light but had a soft edge of rejection; as if he was discussing a bruise he didn't know the origin of.

"I don't deserve it," Y/N replied simply, shrugging her shoulders, then furrowing her brow at her own nerve. How quickly one settles into carelessness when given the chance, she mused. Or, alternatively, how quickly one learns the rhythms and nature of another person. That is all she's doing, after all. Loki doesn't act like a prince around her so she's---for some stupid reason---not treating him like one.

Bemused: _"'Don't deserve it'?_ You've been making sure all my charcoal sticks point in the same direction as I left them. I have a _lot_ of charcoal sticks. Even my father's maids don't bother to do likewise, and he's the _Allfather."_

Loki likes to use his hands as he talks, Y/N has only just noticed. Although, during their first few meetings, he had kept both his palms clasped tightly behind his back. Now they're not, now they're gesturing and pointing, animated and alive. They keep good time with the rest of his body, he suddenly looks more in sync, now that he's not trying to restrain every reaction, hold back any hint of feeling or emotion his face might be aching to let slip. Y/N wondered if everyone in the royal family is brimming with so much personality, or if Loki just hasn't had his stamped out of him yet because he's the youngest.

She shrugged again, and the prince sighed. Not yet entirely defeated, but he clearly recognised that he was defeated in that specific area. He could not make Y/N take his money, but...

"I would like to repay you for your troubles. What do you want?"

This had the effect he was after; Y/N's hand paused halfway through angling a vase so that the little picture of a sun on one side was parallel to the jewellery box to its right. Y/N had often stared at that box and wondered what was inside. Does the prince even wear jewellery? She'd never seen a necklace suspended between his collarbones, or a bracelet adorning his wrists. Y/N couldn't see any holes in his ears---

"I don't want anything." Not exactly a lie. Y/N does want several things, and, coincidentally, the prince is the only person in the entire realm---nay, universe---who could give them to her. But she'd have to have some kind of death wish to ask that of him. And to ask for those things in lieu of/as some kind of payment...Y/N's stomach turned over at the very thought and she tried not to go tomato coloured.

Loki didn't look convinced. "There must be something you want. Please. You think you don't deserve a small bonus for working hard, but look around you. Do you think I deserve this for doing nothing apart from being born into a wealthy family?" He gestured at the---well, at everything, the paintings by famous artists, their solid gold frames, the bed linen made of the finest fabrics around, the walls, the chairs carved with such impossible finess they'd probably constituted one carpenter's entire career...

When Y/N didn't reply to that---because what was she supposed to say? Loki repeated: "Please. I feel guilty, you'll actually be doing me a favour."

Y/N hesitated, then turned to him, her fingers tugging at the rag she clutched in one hand. "Just keep letting me help you make the paints you need. I enjoyed doing it."

Both of the prince's eyebrows had risen and come together now, and he looked down at his housekeeper with what could only be described as bafflement. "You want me to thank you for your work..." he spelt it out, testing the words on his tongue, "by giving you _more_ work?"

Flushing, Y/N nodded, having to break contact with his piercing eyes because they seemed to be able to worm their way right into her head. She was scared they'd poke about in there and discover the reason she hadn't seen crushing up those rocks of pigment as work. She was worried her face would betray the fact that she'd not only enjoyed but treasured those hours spent kneeling next to the prince, working together to create a little patch of beauty. "Yes. Whenever you need paint I'd be happy to help make it. It's pretty." She nearly added _'and so are you',_ but she's not a complete idiot so bit it back just in time.

There was a pregnant pause where the prince turned this over in his head, his gaze still roving over Y/N's face. He was probably trying to tell whether she was being sincere---if she---actually _had_ enjoyed it, or if she was just saying what she thought he'd want to hear. 

Y/N was surprised he'd even need to wonder this at all. She'd thought her willingness---her eagerness---to play a part in the beautiful process that was paint-manufacturing had been blatantly obvious.

Eventually, the prince must have reached the conclusion that Y/N had been telling the truth because he nodded like someone agreeing to a business deal. "Okay. But always tell me if you've had enough."

Y/N didn't know how she could ever have enough.


	8. Chapter 8

Loki excused Y/N from the last of her chores, leading her to his studio right away. 

He still guided her there, showing her the way like a gentleman, and he’d continue to treat it as her first time visiting even on her hundredth. And he still had that annoying habit of holding the door open for her, sweeping an arm to guide her into the cosy little space in mid-air as if combing the entrance for cobwebs he didn’t want to get stuck in her hair.

These things didn’t make Y/N’s innards knot in on themselves as much as they used to, she realised. Her cheeks would still go a bashful pink, her demeanour like a rose too shy to bloom, but that is all. _That_ should have tied Y/N’s insides into a tight bow---the realisation that she’s getting used to a lifestyle miles above her station---but it didn’t. Not while she was with the prince, anyway. A claw of self-consciousness would run itself down her spine, but he’d effortlessly bat it away. A voice deep in her head would whisper that she’s an imposter, that _she_ should be holding doors open for _him;_ but Loki would swat it from her mind as though it were merely an annoying insect.

The prince didn’t make (well, let) Y/N stay so late, this time. She noticed his eyes keep sliding to the window, mapping the space between the sinking sun and the hard line of the horizon. He’d probably mentally marked a dash on the sky, a specific time he planned to make her leave, even if she wanted to stay. She told him that that wasn’t necessary, she’d happy to remain by his side and help him make all the paint he needs, but he’d waved off her words, having none of it.

“I'd prefer to stay here. I don’t even mind missing dinner,” Y/N had said lightly, currently working a stubborn lump from a purple powder so dark it was almost black. “Ylva is making---what she calls---kroppkakor again tonight. Last time she did that, half the servants got sick.” She’d said it to try to make the prince laugh, to make the corners of his eyes do that crinkly thing she has become so bafflingly fond of, but it, instead, had the opposite effect.

He’d paused mid-way through cracking an egg into a bowl, the white tumbling out with the yolk in a gooey, unsupervised globule. The prince didn’t seem to notice. Or care. “Really?”

“Yes. We think she didn’t cook the meat for long enough---or maybe she just didn’t want to fork out for a good cut.” Then, feeling remorseful for dragging one of her superior's names through the mud, Y/N added: “Or maybe she couldn’t _afford_ a good cut.” 

Sounding surprisingly concerned: “Do you not eat well in the servant’s quarters?”

Y/N pondered her response carefully. On the one hand, the prince’s family pay for the culinary services she would be describing; so she’d have to tread carefully as not to sound ungrateful. On the other hand, the prince---for some reason---seems to have taken some kind of interest in Y/N, so it would feel wrong to lie. She wouldn't be able to lie convincingly anyway; not about Ylva's cooking. Just mentioning it brought the familiar sharpness of too much salt to Y/N's tongue. Her taste buds retreated, pulling her expression into a tight grimace. 

After some contemplation and various shuffling and re-shuffling of words:

“We get what we need. It’s different down there to up here; more practical. We get _enough_ food, it's just not usually very nice.”

“And sometimes makes everyone ill.” Loki was now trying to scoop the yellow orb of the egg yolk from the white with a spoon. His brows were still tightly knitted over the ridge of his nose at this new---and to him, slightly horrifying---information. “Can’t a better chef be hired?”

Y/N didn’t want to say the word ‘afford’, not twice in the same conversation, so she stayed quiet. The prince seemed to know what this meant because he dropped the subject, and the matter of Y/N’s meagre diet was not picked up again.

Well, not until the next day.

  
  


…

  
  


“I brought these. To share," The prince added, knowing Y/N had probably assumed that---whatever it was---she wouldn't be a part of it. He brought out a white china plate seemingly from nowhere and placed it down between them as they kneeled at the little table the next day. He’d arrived at his chambers early, so early he caught Y/N just as she’d begun her chores, and told her simply to leave them for today. Once again he led her to his studio, and now he was opening various boxes to find the colour he’d like Y/N to start preparing.

She eyed the plate sceptically. "What is it?" The china held ten little white individual mounds. Their surface was smooth, but seemed solid, almost like large, rectangular pebbles. 

Loki looked at Y/N’s expression, probably thinking she was joking, but said anyway: "Gateau." When she still seemed genuinely baffled he clarified: "Cake."

"That's not cake,” Y/N impugned indignantly. “Cake is yellow and crumbly. Like a sponge."

The prince’s mouth twitched; he didn’t seem to know whether to pity or laugh at her. "The sponge is inside. Haven't you seen icing before?"

Y/N shook her head but took one of the lumps cautiously, turning it over and inspecting its smooth, blemishless surface. Giving it an experimental little squeeze, Y/N found its consultancy to be squishy---and spongy. Maybe there _was_ cake inside. If there wasn't, this seems like a strange and unusual prank to play on a person.

Loki sensed her hesitation, and took one himself, bringing it to his mouth as if to prove it was, indeed, edible. He bit into it, the narrow pink dash of his lips contrasting with the pure white of the so-called icing. Raised to never talk with his mouth full, the prince chewed and swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing up and then down the narrow line of his throat.

Y/N couldn't stop staring. 

"See." He held out the remaining half of the treat so Y/N could get a good look at its exposed insides. Sure enough, there was the promised cake, yellow and crumbly and all, along with something else, something red and gooey, currently dripping down the side of Loki's thumb. 

Now Y/N was slightly startled, and it made the prince laugh. The sound was beautiful---giggles curling and peeling off his tongue, fluttering about the air like streamers---but Y/N was too distracted to notice. 

"What's the red stuff?" She asked. She'd figured it was either blood or uncooked, liquidised meat, and was trying to decide which was more disgusting. Her expression must have displayed some of her abhorrence because the prince was still trying to bite back the chuckles his chest kept pushing up. Y/N wanted to give his side a playful little shove for finding her horror amusing.

"Jam. You must have heard of jam."

"I've _heard_ of it but---" that sentence actually had five more words on the end--- _'I’ve never actually tried it’---_ but Y/N snipped them off. She didn’t want to tell him about her depressing living conditions. Not because she can’t stand his pity, but because it broadens the gap between them; reminds her of the space separating their worlds. Instead, she said:

"Never mind. Are you sure I can eat this?" She knows what goes into cake, despite only having it on about three occasions in her life; sugar. And sugar is _expensive._ Does the prince know he’s giving away a culinary rarity to The Help? Does he _know_ how much sugar is worth? No, probably not. And if he does, it doesn't matter anyway. This is a snack for him. The royal kitchens are probably stocked with things like this at all times, just in case anyone gets hungry, has guests, or even, perhaps is just bored. How can the prince constitute mainly of sticks when things like this are always at his fingertips?

"Of course you can eat it,” said stick-prince assured. He hadn’t meant to sound assuring, he’d just sounded so puzzled as to why Y/N thought she _couldn’t_ have some that she realised no one would probably notice or mind if she did. 

Y/N didn’t take a bite yet, though, because she’d sort of frozen in place because of what was happening in front of her:

Loki had finished his first miniature cake now and lapped up that rouge stream of jam dripping down his thumb. It made Y/N nearly drop her gateau. The pink point of the prince’s tongue slid up the narrow column of his digit, his eyes slipping close as he relished the taste. The room felt, suddenly, like it was on fire.

"What?" Loki asked, probably noticing that Y/N’s eyes had gone as wide as the plate before them, and that she hadn’t yet taken a bite of her cake. It's not like Y/N’s expression was difficult _not_ to notice, but the prince didn't seem to be able to figure out what it _meant_ because his brow had knitted together again. "You really can eat it, I'm not going to charge you for it, or something."

Clearing her throat (because it had closed up, clenched tight like a nervous fist) Y/N brought one end the cake (she'd only just managed to hold onto) to her lips. It smelled nice. Sweet and buttery---that slight tang of jam hidden deep in the porous centre making her mouth suddenly moist. She’d never had icing before, or cake so decadent it contained a swirl of jam, but her body seemed to instinctually know that it would be good. 

Tentatively, despite her piqued appetite, Y/N let her teeth close around the rounded nub of one end of the snack, slicing off a narrow centimetre. It fell onto her tongue, a spongy wedge, and she chewed it cautiously. 

Then her eyes closed of their own accord, a little moaning sound pushing its way up from her ribcage. 

If this is cake, what was that stuff her parents had served her? Three times they’d made enough money to afford enough sugar to make a baked good, and each time Y/N’s mother had prepared a brick of what she’d called cake. But it hadn’t tasted like this. That had been plain, so dry it’s almost scratchy and so heavy you’re mouth feels weighed down with the weight of it. But _this_ cake. This is...Y/N didn’t know what it was like; she’d not had the privilege of eating anything in her life that she could compare it to. It’s soft, so _soft_ it dissolved on her tongue into a syrupy blob of---

“This is amazing,” she sort of exhaled the words, completely forgetting about not talking with her mouth full; she didn’t want to swallow---she didn’t want this ball of saccharine loveliness to ever leave her taste buds. 

The prince’s cheeks had gone pink. Had Y/N not just experienced some sort of sensory awakening, she would have looked a little more into this. And into the fact that his gaze had sort of fallen from her eyes to her mouth, his pupils all swelled up and his throat bobbing again as he swallowed. He'd swallowed but he hadn’t eaten anything; he’d just sat there, watching Y/N as she took another bite. And another and another and then suddenly her hand was empty. 

Before she had a chance to look disappointed, Loki nudged the plate over to Y/N’s side of the table. She looked at it, then back at the prince bashfully, hoping he hadn’t thought her greedy; she’d probably looked like a feral animal. She licked her lips, catching little crumbs that were dotting her chin like stubble, her cheeks flushing.

“Thank you,” She said, meaning it, as she took another of the little gateaus. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had.” It was the truth; these wedges of jam-filled, icing-covered sponge beat anything her mother had tried to make---even though she felt a twinge of guilt for thinking it. And those hard-candies she’d gotten for her coming-of-age seemed bland and tart in comparison. 

“Take as many as you like,” Loki seemed to have found his voice now, but it caught a little, that redness still gracing the sharp bones of his cheeks; the residual effects of that moaning sound Y/N had made. Y/N didn’t look into it; she was trying not to appear utterly starved as she took a carefully-controlled bite of her second cake. 

  
  


…

  
  


Later, Loki taught Y/N how to do what he’d been doing with the egg yolks; separating the yolk and adding just the right amount to the pigment to convert it from fine powder to smooth paste. His reasoning was that he'd like to paint during the day, while its light, rather than waiting for the evening when Y/N had left him with all the colours he'd need. 

“Would you mind preparing the pigments while I paint?” he’d asked after several hours of crushing, mixing, and stirring things (and occasionally nibbling at the remaining cakes). Loki never orders, he _offers_ , _invites_ , always checking that Y/N is comfortable and happy to do whatever task others would just instruct her to complete. 

It had stopped making her uneasy and now made her down-right on edge. 

Their relationship had entered a new sphere, recently; you can’t spend over six hours kneeled next to someone without growing a little more at ease with each other. And that is what seems to have happened between the prince and his housekeeper. 

Y/N had few friends, and the friends she did have were so poor they would steal from her whilst she slept, given the chance. In all honesty, Y/N---and every other servant in existence can relate to this---rarely has time for friends; most of her relationships were with employers, thus strained and kept strictly formal. The prince is Y/N's boss, in a way, and he has more power than anyone Y/N has worked for in the past. And yet---after yesterday---she’d class him closer to the ‘friends’ category than 'employer', as far as intimacy was concerned. The prince treats her with a gentleness, and (to Y/N’s affection-staved heart) that made him her friend. Even if she wasn’t his.

She wouldn't tell him this, of course. She doesn’t even acknowledge him as that in her conscious thoughts; it’s more of a shadow in the background, a feeling, an instinct rather than a choice she has made. But Y/N can’t ignore it; those waves of fondness she feels for him at random intervals---there's no denying that she likes him. A lot. She’s becoming enamoured with him and that’s what unsettles her. With every fond thought comes that nagging reminder that she’s in territory that’s strictly out of bounds. 

A prince shouldn’t even know someone like Y/N's _first_ _name_ , let alone use it on a regular basis (with that friendly, fond edge she’s fairly convinced she isn’t imagining). It’s only a matter of time before she’s found out and fired, or he’s discovered and forbidden from seeing her. The royal family has a reputation to uphold, and Y/N highly doubted The Allfather would let his youngest son sully that by forming friendships with The Help. 

“You don’t mind painting while I’m in the room?” Y/N asked, unable to hide her interest. She’d miss the comforting, solidness of the prince kneeled next to her but getting to watch him paint felt like a worthy exchange. 

“No,” he dipped his head, some of his dark, raven-feather hair covering his face like curtains at the end of a play. “It’ll actually be nice to have some company.” 

This made Y/N smile. Any reservations she’d had---any promises she’d made herself about taking a step back from their ‘relationship’---fell away, forgotten. 

  
  


…

  
  


So that is how things went. The prince would join Y/N in his chambers when she’d been to the market to retrieve that day’s pigments. He’d kneel with her to create the first few colours, then cross the room to the easel, which he’d stand by and dab at occasionally, sometimes straying back to Y/N’s side to retrieve the next colour.

He spent several days just laying down the ‘foundations’ for the painting, those blocky amorphous shadows. The shadows began to make sense as more was added to the picture, layers stacked up until shapes began to emerge. Y/N could have just asked the prince outright what it was going to be---during all those hours she spent preparing the very paint that was to go into its creation---but she didn’t. There was a sort of mellow thrill that came with simply watching the image develop, the mystery of guessing how it will change over time. 

The prince didn’t seem to mind Y/N watching him, but she still tried to be discreet, just in case he felt crowded or self-conscious---she’s still very aware of the fact that this is a delicate situation. She's very privileged to be allowed in this room, let alone permitted to see him work. Cautiously, Y/N would subtly angle herself so that she could track the prince’s movements in the corner of her eye, only daring to face him directly when he’d become particularly absorbed. At those times, Y/N’s hand curled about the pestle would come to a distracted halt and she’d just stop what she was doing for a little while to stare at him. Whether he knew she was watching was a mystery. If he did, he never commented.

Painting is just another one of the many things too prestigious to have crossed Y/N's path before. She knew it involved a brush, she'd seem them around Loki's chambers; tufts of hair on the end of a delicate rod of wood. From this, and from seeing the strokes upon finished pieces, she could deduce that a sweeping motion was probably required to transfer the paint onto the canvas. 

This turned out to be partially correct, although it was really more like dabbing; light presses, subtle, soft little strokes in places that obviously made complete sense to the prince but seemed absolutely random to any other observer. It was as though he could see the picture on the canvas already, and was just filling bits in----matching up colours---until everyone else could see it too. Y/N was convinced of this, actually, because he’d often just stare at it for minutes on end, angling his head, tilting his chin or sort of crouching before the canvas as though trying to figure it out. He clearly saw something that she could not.

It was amusing to watch him for many reasons. Yes, art was being made, which was a wondrous, surreal thing to witness, but the main reason Y/N enjoyed it was because the prince was very nice to look at. The moments when Loki is painting are the only moments in Y/N’s presence that he isn’t utterly focused on _her_. She _likes_ him being focused on her; how his eyes make her toes curl in her shoes, and his voice tangles her eardrums up in ribbons. But she also likes those rare few hours when he isn’t actually paying any attention to her at all. 

He acts differently, then, Y/N noticed. More natural, his joints looser and his shoulders less set. 

He rolls up his sleeves, sometimes, if the green (they’re always green) shirt he happened to be wearing is particularly baggy; thus at risk of getting stained. His bare arms are just as pale as the rest of him, all smooth ridges of bone and little hills of muscle.

He tucks his hair behind his ears, or---if his hands are busy---gives his head a little flick and huffs a breath of air through pursed lips; blowing the run-away strands from his field of vision. Y/N almost stood up several times and assisted him. If only _that_ was what she was employed to do; sit by the prince as he paints and wrangle his hair back in if ever it got in his eyes.

Something else he does---and this is Y/N’s favourite---is when he takes a few steps backwards and absently pluck one of whatever treat was sitting patiently on a plate by Y/N’s elbow. He’d munch on it while he squinted at the canvas before him, sometimes leaning back, slouched, hip jutting out. He liked to have one arm crossed over his flat stomach and the other resting on it, holding his snack to his mouth as he licked at the frosting or nibbled a corner off a wedge of sponge. This was Y/N's favourite Loki-ism to observe because anything involving his lips is absolutely fascinating. For her, anyway. 


	9. Chapter 9

Y/N knew what the Prince's painting was of now (well, she thought she had a pretty good idea). The blocky shadows had merged together to form a very simple image. It featured, as far as Y/N could tell, the lower half of someone's face, and half of their shirt-covered chest. Their head was propped up on one hand, the other resting comfortably on the table marked by a simple brown line along the bottom edge of the canvas. The person’s hands had a hint of blue just-about showing through the first layer of skin the prince had applied. Y/N guessed its probably a self-portrait of his hands stained blue with pigment as he makes the paint he’s using.

Compared to his other painting Y/N had seen---the one of a bustling marketplace---this one was serene and uncomplicated. It had a simple elegance, a beauty that was just starting to make itself known. Y/N recalled the prince explaining that he paints what he finds beautiful, and this piece really illustrates that fact.

The vast majority of the populations probably wouldn't have the artist’s eye required to see much in this picture. It was well executed, yes; obviously destined to be detailed and flawless, yes, but that is probably the limit of understanding achievable by the vast populace.

Y/N understood it, though; or, at least, she had her own thoughts about it. It is about making paint---or at least it will be, once it is complete. It’s about creation, artistry, the whimsy of colour. Loki is trying to capture the magic of the process; something only a select group of people would understand.

…

The prince had started leaving an extra heap of money for Y/N each morning.

There would be the usual pile waiting for her atop the daily list of pigments she would be required to fetch from the market, but now there’s another pile, too.

The prince explained that this was for Y/N to spend on snacks for their next painting session.

Y/N asked him, with eyes narrowed with suspicion, whether this was (excuse the pun) a half-baked attempt to ease his guilt. Y/N knew he still felt bad about keeping her so late the other night, and for adding paint-making to her workload, even if she’d explicitly said she enjoys it. The promise of snacks just seemed like his latest attempts to make paint-making more appealing. Which really wasn’t necessary, Y/N had assured.

Y/N hadn’t uncovered his insecurity using her excellent detective skills, no. The prince had actually just handed it to her outright on several occasions. He was concerned he was asking too much of her. Yes, he needs the paint, having help preparing it makes the whole process so much faster---and yet he’s always checking Y/N is _happy_ to stay, that she’s _happy_ to continue, that she’s happy in general, really.

She’d wave him off each time, saying something along the lines of ‘I’d rather make pretty colours than help Ylva pick the eyes out of potatoes’ or ‘Being covered in blue dust at the end of the day is much more appealing than being covered in cold mop-water and soap suds’. She’d then repeated her earlier statement/lie: that the servant’s kitchens really do feed her enough, so snacks really are not required.

To this, the prince had said the nacks are more for him, because he suffers from low blood sugar so prefers to always have something to nibble on close at hand. Y/N knew this to be false; he looks as though he photosynthesises rather than eats. He probably doesn’t even have blood, he’s just filled with that pale sap that oozes out of trees when you snap off a branch. Or ocean water, transparent and sun-dappled. Or something. But what was she going to do? Argue with a prince? (Well, more than she already had). So she conceded.

“What kind of food would you like me to buy?” Y/N asked, grudgingly. She knew what the answer would be, and she didn’t like the thought of using the royal family’s money to please her own stomach. There must be a law about that, somewhere, she realised with a slightly sick feeling.

“I don’t mind. Get whatever you feel like.” Of course.

Sighing, because it was becoming increasingly difficult preventing her mind from running away with mental images of all the delicacies that awaited her curious palate: “Don’t you want to choose what your own money is buying?”

Loki and Y/N’s time spent in the presence of each other totalled around twenty hours, now. Y/N felt much more at ease with him than she ever had--- around anyone---so worrying about questioning him directly didn’t even occur to her anymore.

He merely waved a slender hand nonchalantly. He, too, had become more at ease around Y/N; his limbs now having left the comforting solidness of his main frame, his voiceless measured and words less carefully picked.

This sometimes made Y/N nervous, the fear that they’d be found out running a taloned finger down her neck, but she’d become better at shooing it away. She’d figured that so long as no one finds out how she acts around the prince, and how he acts back to her, she could mirror his lase attitude to no ill effects. And who could possibly find out that they’d become so familiar, anyway? The prince’s chambers are off-limits to everyone but Y/N and himself. They’re more than safe, tucked away in his little studio, mixing colours and picking at a plate of baked goods over informal conversation.

“I’m really not picky.”

...

So, Y/N’s trips to the market had gained a new, delicious responsibility, and en extra row of coins. Y/N was to pick up whatever she felt like from one of the numerous stalls selling baked goods, then collect the pigments the prince required from Frode, before making her way back to the palace where Loki would be waiting.

When choosing a confectionary stall to buy from, Y/N was spoilt for choice but she soon found a fond favourite. It was owned by a large woman who went by the name Aasta.

Aasta, now that Y/N thought about it, closely resembled the food she sold. She always wore colourful dresses draped over her soft, doughy frame---like icing over a sponge---their patterns like sprinkles or nubs of frosting. Y/N liked her for many reasons. One was that she sold the most lavish pastries, by far, and always slipping an extra bun into the box Y/N held out, giving her a wink as she did so. The other reasons were: her face always bore a wide-mouthed smile, she always remembered Y/N’s name, and her freckles look like stars.

At first, Y/N chose the snacks she thought looked good to _her;_ things _she'd_ like to try. But then, eventually and inevitably, she’d tried everything the stall had to offer, so she started bringing back whatever _the_ _prince_ seemed to have liked most. Like that chocolate cake with the fudge filling so gooey you have to hold a plate under it to catch the drips. Or that powdery white lump of airy sponge with a thick globule of jam at its centre. These things made the Prince's eyes _light_ _up_ when Y/N presented them, then made them slide _closed_ when he bit into them.

Y/N remembered what Alfdis had said about trying to feed the skinny little prince up a bit when he was a child, and realised she’d accidentally started doing the same thing. She’d also realised that maybe Alfdis hadn't only done it because of his small stature. The little sounds of pleasure he made in that velvet voice of his, and the way his sugar-stained mouth went all smiley, was enough incentive in itself.

Yes, buying what the prince waned rather than what Y/N wanted does go directly against his instructions of getting what _she_ wanted, but it didn't matter. Anything with sugar in it is still a novelty for Y/N and her half-starved body. She's happy with anything Aasta sells. So she might as well get something that made the prince do that humming thing, or put a little more meat on his skinny bones.

...

One thing Y/N _didn't_ like about the market, though, was the new arrangement Frode and Arne seemed to have agreed upon behind her back.

Frode had long since learnt to expect Y/N each morning, and greeted her with a little wave and a wriggle of his moustache as a smile bloomed below the bristles.

However, he would not serve Y/N himself, anymore. “You just hand your list to Arne,” he’d said upon her second visit. “He’ll fetch you everything you need and you can be on your way.” He’d meant to be friendly and helpful---to save Y/N spending half an hour of her life each day waiting in a line of sick people hoping to be cured, but it actually made Y/N rather nervous.

She _liked_ Arne, he treats her well, but that is precisely the root cause of that pinching feeling in her stomach every time she sees his straw-coloured hair bobbing about over the top of the crowd. He treats her _too_ well, and it would only be a matter of time before he asks whether she would like to take their relationship from professional to personal. Y/N would turn him down and that may well wound his feelings---which Y/N did _not_ want to do, as well as damage the ease of their daily transactions.

Y/N would honestly rather wait in a queue like the rest of the apothecary’s customers if it meant she could do her dealings with the funny mole-like man with the chunky glasses and bushy caterpillar under his nose. He reminded Y/N of a grandpa, or maybe an elderly uncle, who tells you stories that may or may not have actually happened.

…

It was a week and a half after Y/N had gotten her ears pierced that Arne made a move of any kind. He’d hinted before, probably trying to ease Y/N into the fact that he was interested as not to shock her. That seemed to be the foundations of Arne’s existence; he was laid back and amicable, all muted tones and words said with the intent of making her laugh. His personality was like a stone that had been rounded by the gentle lapping of the waves.

“Your ears are healing nicely,” he’d said as he reached up to the top shelf of the stall easily and brought down a large jar of cobalt-blue pulverulent lumps.

The actual pigments were still a mystery as far as understanding their ingredients went, but Y/N had begun to match some of the colours and shades to the words on Loki’s lists. He’d shown her how to pronounce some of the complicated syllables in their names as well, but she still slid his scrap of scribbled-on paper across the counter to Arne rather than trying to remember them all. It felt wrong to try---as if she was trying to wriggle her into a world she didn’t belong; painting, chemistry, alchemy, understanding such things are for people much higher up the class system than Y/N could ever hope to be.

“Have you had any trouble with them? Itching, or swelling or anything?” Arne spoke easily, bringing Y/N back from her reverie. She couldn’t help her cheeks flushing at the mention of any part of her body; such intimate things are rarely discussed in most normal society.

She guessed, though, that for a medical apprentice it’s just business, and attempted to calm her complexion back down to its usual colour. She was trying to focus on Arne's hands rather than his eyes, because his eyes made her want to look away.

He scooped some of the blue crumbly rocks from the jar and placed them into one of the empty wooden boxes on the counter. Y/N had formed a habit of bringing some of the old ones back to reuse if she knew the prince wanted more of a colour he’d already requested before.

Y/N answered politely: “No problems, thank you.” It wasn’t a lie; she’d made sure to keep her ears clean and not to touch them, if she could help it, after the warning Alfdis had given her about infection. The housekeeper’s eyes had widened when Y/N walked into the dining hall with her new jewellery, and---of course---she’d asked as to where she had gotten the funds to pay for such things. Y/N made up a story about having saved a small portion of her wages every week. If Alfdis didn’t believe this, she didn’t say so.

Arne always lit up a little when Y/N said more than two words (like her usual ‘thank you’ or ‘yes, please’). This made her feel worse about his unreciprocated affections, so she tried to limit her speech in his presence to the bare minimum as not to lead him on.

This tactic wasn’t working; he seemed to just have reached the conclusion that she was shy, and made more of an effort to fill the silences in an attempt to make her feel more welcome. It was so sweet of him Y/N sometimes wanted to cry. Why couldn’t life be simple? Here is this perfectly eligible male handing her his affections, and she’s so stuck up she just keeps passing them back. She _wants_ to like him like that, but she didn’t seem to able to kick her body into gear.

She should give him a chance at least; she needs to start thinking about her, about her family’s future. That had been the key subject of her mother’s lectures during Y/N’s latest visit home about a year ago. That’s how life worked, the older woman had said. She had birthed Y/N so she could support her and her husband in their old age, and Y/N, in turn, would have her own children to support _her_ and _her_ husband _\---_ and so on. True love is for fairy tales and wealthy people, Y/N’s father had added. For the working class, marriage is a career move.

Arne would be a smart career move, Y/N knew that. His stable income---when he graduates his apprenticeship and inherits Frode’s stall---would be generous; _more_ than enough to support Y/N and her elderly parents. Much more generous than her measly house-maid wages. What was she doing fawning over a _prince---?_

“I was wondering---”

 _‘So here it comes,’_ Y/N said inwardly, already feeling the outsides of herself retreating closer to her centre.

Arne’s voice had pitched itself into a new level of light-hearted friendliness (if that was even possible). Where Y/N deals with anxiety by clamming up, Arne seems to get more talkative.

He’d carried on taking things from shelves and putting a little of their contents into Y/N’s wooden boxes. “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight. I was going to go up to Sól hill---there’s said to be a good view from the East side. I wondered if you would like to join me? I’ll bring something to eat, of course---”

He told her about the sandwiches his mother makes, and how meteors can sometimes be coloured due to minerals inside them burning up in the atmosphere---or something.

Y/N had tried to pay attention but all she could think about was the inner turmoil currently raging its way about her mind like a restless ocean. It dragged up thoughts from deep in her brain and dumped them on the shore of her consciousness.

Most of them were about Loki.

She kept looking at Arne’s freckles and how---even though they were pretty, in their own way---the prince’s skin was smooth and blemishless in comparison.

Or her eyes would try to sweep down Arne’s figure but the ride wouldn’t be smooth as it was with the prince. Loki’s shoulders are wide and taper down into his narrow waist, which then leads to the lean, slender stretch of his narrow legs, and finally his pale feet, usually half covered in the green cotton of his trousers. The shape of the prince tugs your eyes down the length of him, metaphorically takes your hand and leads you in one smooth motion all the way from his head to his toes. Arne’s didn’t; his shoulders were wide but his forearms were wide as well, thick with muscles from lugging about boxes of stock for Frode (who is much too frail to do his own heavy lifting). And his waist isn’t narrow either, but it isn’t thick, it was just...average.

All of him was average, which Y/N felt sick with guilt for even thinking, but it was true. He doesn’t excite anything within her, his presence didn’t remind her that she was a woman and he was a man.

He’s just the apothecary’s apprentice.

What Y/N wanted in a partner, she realised, was what the prince made her feel. That sort of clenching in the pit of her belly whenever his eyes lock with hers, that tingling that spreads through every nerve cell and dances along the column of her spine when their skin had brushed. Even though Y/N’s parents had told her such things were out of a working-class girl’s reach, she still couldn’t help hoping that maybe she’d be one of the lucky few who managed to grab it anyway.

But Y/N had never felt that about another person besides the prince. Maybe _that’s_ the reason; he’s a prince. Maybe regular people _can’t_ elicit that kind of response, physically. Maybe loving someone---well, being _attracted_ to someone---just isn’t that titillating amongst the lower classes. After all, Y/N’s own parents been _matched_ by their parents because the union made logical, financial sense And hasn’t Y/N’s childhood friend, Ama, recently been paired off into an arranged marriage to (save her family from poverty when her family’s crops failed)? Had Y/N ever actually met a working-class couple who married for love?

This thought made Y/N’s heart sink heavily in her chest. How could she be so selfish? Gallivanting around market places without a care in the world. Buying pretty jewellery with money she really should have sent straight back home to her struggling parents. Relishing any hint of affection a _prince_ gave her, for some reason hoping---despite everything---that he might genuinely like her.

She should find a nice man, accept his proposal, settle down, and produce children so that they could go and get jobs and support her in her old age---

“That sounds lovely, thank you. What time should I meet you there?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if my quality is slipping, sometimes I feel like it is coz I don't plan any of this I just write as it comes to me


	10. Chapter 10

Arne said he'd pick Y/N up at the palace just after dinner time. 'Pick up' isn't really accurate; he had no mode of transportation to pick her up _with_. He'd bashfully specified this, like he was disclosing his lack of wealth, expecting Y/N to change her mind about seeing him that evening. Y/N almost laughed; as if _she_ had the social status to care about such things.

Her smile faded, though, as soon as she was alone. She felt deflated as she trudged back to the palace, listless like a soldier returning home from a war she'd lost. What didn't improve things was the knowledge that, really, Y/N had no right to wallow in self-pity. Yes, one day she will have to marry a man she doesn't love, have children she isn't ready for, and grow old and bitter, just like her parents---but not _yet._ She's arranged one date with Arne. One date.

And who knows; maybe once she catches a glimpse of the pale moonlight reflecting off of his tanned skin she might learn to appreciate it. Or when she looks over at his muscley body sprawled on the grass at her side, she might feel something for it---even if she hadn't before. And if she doesn't, he seems like a nice, amiable young man; perfect husband material, Y/N's mother would say. She'd probably declare it unashamedly, right in front of Arne's long, freckle-spattered face as she shoves Y/N into his arms. And for good reason.

Y/N should at least _try_ to let him into her life.

One date.

She'd noticed that recently; her life seems to have gone through some kind of shift. Old ways have fallen away like the constantly eroding face of a cliff. People from her old life---her life as a scullery maid and a groundskeeper---have begun to fall out of her company.

Or she'd pushed them away.

No, Y/N hasn't pushed them away, not on purpose, she'd just... failed to maintain certain bridges. She stays late with Loki, crushing up colours, mixing smooth pastes, or just watching the prince dab at his canvas. Then, by the time she has completed the trek from his chambers to the servant's quarters at the end of the day, her brain is in no mood for socialising at the table with her roughcast peers; not that many are still up. Most have usually gone to bed---or are getting ready to do so. And Loki prefers to rise late, so it's early afternoon by the time he's left his rooms and Y/N can start her cleaning chores. Everything she does now is late: She's become accustomed to rising late in the morning, and going to sleep late at night. It suits her. She prefers the mellow hours of evening to the frigid, brittle first breaths of morning, but that does mean Y/N and the other servant's timetables don't sync up anymore. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing; to be honest, Y/N is more than happy to go without their gossip.

Another reason for Y/N's disinterest in the goings-on of the servants quarters is the fact that---as well as losing touch with several aspects of her old life---she seems to have _gained_ a few things with her new life, and they're just... _better_.

For one; health.

This could be because her workload doesn't strip her to the bone as it used to when she'd be darting back and forth in a steam-filled kitchen, or relentlessly scrubbing steps at dawn. Her skin is no longer red and raw, or dry and chapped. Yesterday, she actually had to cut her nails because her work no longer involves labour that files them down to the quick. Her muscles don't ache as she uses them, or scream out in protest if she bends to pick something up.

Another attribute to Y/N's good health is the prince's generous offering of daily snacks. Y/N's body is finally receiving its required number of calories, and the effects are wondrous. She suddenly finds herself brimming with energy and motivation; listlessly dragging her limbs around seems to be a thing of the past. Sometimes she'll take stairs two at a time, or find a little skip in her step whilst meandering through the market. It feels good, as does looking at her reflection, all of a sudden. Y/N doesn't have a full-length looking glass, or even a handheld one. She'd have to sell a liver to afford anything of the sort. She does as the other servants do, and uses the speckled row of shoe-box-sized mirrors nailed up along one wall in their respected gender's washroom.

When Y/N would stand before that marked sheet of puddle-grey glass before, she'd see a wrung-out, scraggly little thing staring back at her. Kind of like a mouse if said mouse had been working over fifty hours a week and living off nothing but various salty potato-based dishes.

Now, though, her cheeks have colour. She _has_ cheeks; slight feminine curves replacing empty dips and depressing hollows. Despite her childhood being a decent distance in the past, Y/N finally feels as though she has grown up, matured, reached adulthood. _Womanhood._ Some small, ashamed little part of her couldn't help wondering if the prince had noticed.

Medical professionals may disagree, but Y/N is certain that the prince himself has something to do with her improved condition. There's just something about him, he seems to radiate light like the run handing out rays, exude life like resilient little saplings pushing their way up through cracks in concrete. There's some kind of power within him, Y/N's sure of it.

Or maybe Y/N's cells are just reacting positively to someone showing her gentleness. She responds to kindness as a flower does to the summer.

Y/N's new life is swimming in an _abundance_ of kindness. That's another thing she'd gained; new amity. Her promotion seems to have brought her up and away from the company of her peers, but closer to a whole new group of people: Frode, Arne, Aasta (and of course the youngest prince of Asgard).

It's also raised her estimation in the eyes of someone who Y/N had never really thought of as an equal before this point; the head housekeeper, Alfdis. Their similar jobs, their direct contact with the royal family, and their shared affections for Loki (although a little different in nature) separates them from the other servants, but brings them closer to each other.

Being constantly busy, Alfdis, too, eats late, so the two have become accustomed to sitting together and discuss the day. Well, actually, most of their conversations are rather one-sided; Alfdis will tell Y/N about the various herculean chores she has to do about the palace; organising feasts and ceremonies and such like, while Y/N nods and tries not to gag on Ylva's attempts at Leverpostej. Y/N is more than happy to listen to Alfdis' stories---although some are more yarns than anything else. This may be because of another thing Y/N's new life had brought her; a new, strange headspace. Well, strange for a working-class individual:

Contemplation.

Since befriending Loki---she could call it that now, she's fairly sure---Y/N has found herself oddly thoughtful. She'll think about anything, really. Everything suddenly seems _worth_ thinking about.

Like, why does, when exposed to sunlight, a glass of water spit miniature rainbows all over the table?

And what lies beyond Asgard? What awaits at the other end of the Bifrost?

Is what Y/N feels for the prince---those little fluttering things her heart does when he meets her eyes, or the way her stomach turns over when his fingers brush hers---Love? How are you supposed to be able to tell? Can _anyone_ feel love? Or was her bitter old father and mother telling the truth; that such things are fanciful, make-believe, or only accessible for the rich upper classes?

Sometimes Y/N is so lost in a rivery she walks into things. And people.

This is partly Loki's fault directly; he says things that stick with you---about life and the universe and their meagre existence. These questions (or sometimes just observations) get gummed up on the inside of Y/N's skull, leaving her with no choice but to spend the rest of her day picking at them with her brain.

Loki is also responsible for Y/N's bouts of daydreaming in a very indirect way:

Something about the prince, his quiet, taciturn way of experiencing life, makes Y/N feel as though she's missing out on something. He sees his surroundings differently to anyone she has ever met, that much is clear, and not just because of his breathtaking artwork; it's obvious in his eyes. Y/N can see them; little swirls of thought whipping about behind the blacks of his pupils. He notices things that no one else does, digs deeper into reality than others bother to dig. He's found layers of understanding, of beauty in simple things that Y/N didn't even know were there.

Y/N wants to find them too. _She_ wants to see the world like that, with his attentive gaze that eats up everything in sight, his pretty head processing all the little details others would deem unimportant.

She's doing well. Y/N has found that, often, being thoughtful mainly involves giving into whims. For instance, if you feel like staring at the stars rather than going to bed, do it. Wonder about what those little flecks of light _are_ and what lies between, what lies _beyond._ And if you have a question, ask, rather than blindly accepting whatever is handed to you. Even if it gets you stern warning looks from your superior, Alfdis, who has 'no time for such nonsense'. Or like yesterday. While walking through the market Y/N came across a stall selling beans, much like the one in Loki's marketplace painting. The store owner was tending to his customers on the other side of his shop, the broad span of his back blocking Y/N from view. She thought the barrels of beans looked pretty; hundreds of tiny orbs, and felt a strong urge to put her hand in them, just as the children in the prince's picture had done. So she did. Their smooth, curved shells tickled through Y/N's fingers like little lumps of water. She found herself wondering if water is made of many tiny dots, and that's why it flows so easily, taking the shape of its container and getting into all the little crevices it can find.

Maybe Y/N has always been thoughtful, she's just never been permitted to experiment with it. Now that she is, it's like her life has suddenly gained colour.

...

Loki is wearing his hair differently.

He was already in his chambers, this time; the door swinging open as soon as Y/N inserted the key into the lock. She blinked up at him, and he smiled down at her. His lips moved but Y/N's brain didn't catch a single thing he'd said; the syllables drifted lazily past her ears like dust in the wind.

Y/N couldn't tell whether he was _wearing_ his hair differently, or if it was just, genuinely, different. It has...body. Volume. It occupies space, falling in slight waves about the line of his shoulders like the branches of a willow, all light and airy and---

He hasn't slicked it back. That's what's different. He hadn't applied that oil from the little tin on his dresser that usually keeps each strand tight to the curve of his skull like the breast of a magpie. It is now free.

Maybe Y/N had somehow completed her tasks at the market faster than usual. Or the prince has awoken _later_ than usual. Either way, Loki probably hasn't finished getting dressed. To the best of her ability, she wrenched her mind away from the rather pleasing mental images she was experiencing (something to do with filling the spaces between her fingers with the prince's loose curls) and cleared her throat:

"Should I come back later?" her voice didn't sound as strong as she'd wanted it to, a slight reedy edge giving away that the metaphorical rug had been pulled out from her metaphorical feet. She gripped the handle of her mop tight, trying to rid her nerve cells of the lingering figments of her imagination. It didn't help. The dry and prickly grain of the wood merely highlighted the contrasting softness of how Y/N had imagined the prince's hair to be. She could _feel_ it on her hands, little ghosts of sensation. Soft.

The prince must have noticed that Y/N's attention wasn't all present, but he didn't comment. Merely tipped his head to the side inquisitively. The movement made the ends of his hairbrush his left shoulder. "Why?"

Licking her lips, Y/N raised one hand and gestured vaguely at Loki's head.

It made his eyes widen and he took her wrist and gently tugged her into his chambers, nudging the door shut with one foot. Out of all the time they've spent together, that's only the second time he'd touched her properly, not just an accidental graze of fingertips or nudge with his knee as they sat side by side. The first time had been when showing Y/N how to work the pestle. His hand had covered hers softly, like a blanket of snow, but now it was gripping her, sucking her into the room with urgency.

It hadn't hurt, not in the slightest, but Y/N's spine went as taught as a bowstring, and Loki must have felt it below his wide palm because he let her go hastily.

"Sorry. My mother was just down the corridor. I didn't want her seeing you being so--- " He stopped. For once the words were not flowing as easily, and he took a moment to hunt about for the one he wanted. "Informal. Around me. You'd get into trouble, but that's still no excuse for my actions."

"I didn't mind."

The two dark lines of his eyebrows came together, giving him a sad, wilted appearance. "Even after all the time we've spent together you still don't feel comfortable enough around me to say when I make you uncomfortable?"

Y/N shook her head so quickly she thought her hair would tumble out of the tightly-bound bun that always sat perched atop her head. The prince had never seen her with her hair down. A flush came to her cheeks just thinking about him seeing her in such a state. She flushed even more as she realised she wouldn't _mind_ him seeing her like that. "You didn't make me uncomfortable." He really hadn't. Y/N wanted him to do it again. He'd just been pulling her out of the way of potential watchful eyes, but it hadn't felt that way, it had felt as though he was about to lead her on some great adventure. When the cool grip of his fingers had closed over Y/N's skin every nerve cell in her body had suddenly come alive.

Loki smiled as if grateful, the set of his shoulders loosening. "What were you going to say before I practically assaulted you?"

"You didn't assault me, you stopped me from getting fired."

Sometimes Y/N forgets that that is a very real possibility. It's difficult, at times, to keep their secret friendship clutched close to her chest. Especially as it's so beautiful; Y/N feels as though she's in possession of a gorgeous rose, but she can't show another living soul because she'd picked it from the Royal Garden; stolen something she doesn't deserve. She's nearly _dropped_ the secret several times, by accident. Almost let it fall from her grasp and end up naked and vulnerable on the floor for all to see.

Like when she sneaks the charcoal drawing of a doe the prince had given her from its hiding place to admire its delicate lines and Loki's fingerprints visible in its soft smudges. Y/N gets so lost in the image---the muted, monotone little world she can hold in her hands---that she doesn't realise her roommates have become curious and are asking her what she's looking at.

Or when she's Frode or Arne ask her what exactly it is the prince does with all the pigments he buys day after day. Y/N had opened her mouth the first time this question had been handed to her---after all, she's the prince's maid. It's only natural that she'd know a little about what goes on in his chambers. There really would be no harm in briefly describing what sat atop the easel in Loki's studio, Frode would probably find it fascinating, seeing as it is the arrangement of his pigments she'd be depicting. But Y/N had pulled her jaw back up and merely shrugged. She knew that if she began to describe Loki's picture she wouldn't be able to stop. She'd keep going, dangerous levels of fondness creeping into her voice, that swoony light mulling her eyes. She'd start voicing things that weren't her place to ask, like how is his self-portrait nearly finished and yet it still lacks some of its most prominent features? The prince is requesting less and less pigment as each day passes, but the canvas still lacks his silken hair framing his face, and the cut of his pale chin like a marble sculpture.

The friendship between the prince and his housekeeper is most in jeopardy when Y/N sits with Alfdis each night at the dinner table. Alfdis is the only other servant that has had any kind of relationship with Loki. Their shared experiences would make them ideal conversation partners, especially as, like anyone with a crush, all Y/N's heart wants to do is ramble about Loki's pretty eyes or his unique little mannerisms, or---anything. Y/N would like to talk with Alfdis about anything Loki. But, as far as the head housekeeper is concerned, Y/N has no stories about the prince to tell. Not unless she wants a stern lecture about knowing your place and not disgracing the royal family's name.

Y/N would tell Alfdis about Loki's bed-head, if the results wouldn't be imprisonment for treason. Is saying 'the prince is so hot with ruffled hair' treason? Y/N would argue no, because it's complimentary, but she's sure the court would reach a different verdict. They'd probably say Y/N should be imprisoned for even _looking_ at the prince's hair, rather than keeping her head respectfully lowered like she's supposed to.

"I was going to say your hair is different." Y/N did the little gesturing thing again, pointing vaguely to the loose curls about his pale, now---oddly---blushing face.

A small smile twitched at the corner of the prince's lip and he gave a little shrug. "I thought I'd try something new."

"It suits you," Y/N said without thinking. It does suit him. He looks _sinfully_ attractive.

He blinked at her and she tugged the collar of her uniform away from her neck, suddenly feeling as though the room's temperature had risen by several degrees. Then she realised something:

"Frigga was here?" Another blush as she hastily corrected herself: "I mean...Her Majesty was here?"

Loki had gestured to Y/N to follow him and she did, like a cat waiting for its owner to place down a bowl of food. He sighed at the mention of his mother, the sound so etiolated Y/N wondered at first whether it had actually been the sound of the studio door sweeping smoothly open.

But it hadn't been, it had been the prince, his shoulders sagging as if there was some heavy, invisible weight trying to press him into the ground like a thumbtack. The weight was so distracting he didn't even point out that Y/N doesn't need to be so formal.

She waited for it, his usual chastising about using the 'M-word', but it never came. Y/N handed Loki the bag of pigments she'd picked up from the markets, a piteously small amount due to the painting's near completion. It really doesn't look like it's nearly finished. Well, it does, but not if it's supposed to be a self-portrait. Y/N keeps waiting for the day when Loki will widen the jaw to give it that manly solidness, thicken the neck for the same reason, or apply even a hint of black paint about his shoulders to represent his hair.

Although, him leaving those details until last make sense, with recent developments. Loki probably couldn't decide whether to paint his hair as it used to be; slicked back and straight, or as it is now: loose and wavy. Y/N was curious as to how he will decide to proceed. Personally, she liked it either way, but the extra body and volume of his bed-head-like curls do make him seem more...alive. It suits him, and would suit the painting; the hands---pigment-stained---give the whole image a vibrant, evocative feel that would match his new style much more than his previous, restrained look.

Y/N also wondered how the prince would tackle the task of transforming a blob of indecisive darkness into a convincing representation of strands of his glossy mane. Watching the picture form had been a fascinating process, like witnessing a woman go through pregnancy, or watching a tree grow from a seed. Y/N is eager to see the prince's painting through until the end, until that final, conclusive dab of the brush that will mark its fruition. She'd never raised anything before, but she imagines this is how it must feel to do so.

"My mother only enters my chambers when she has important matters to discuss with me," Loki said as he removed the last box of pigment from Y/N's (now rather colourful) tote bag.

Something in his voice made Y/N's abdomen curl in on itself. Not in that exhilarating, pleasing way it usually does, but in another way, a way that made Y/N unsure whether she'd like to hear the rest of what the prince was saying.

"Is everything okay?" Y/N asked, hoping she sounded sympathetic rather than worried about how whatever he's about to mutter will affect her. Has someone found out about their friendship? Is the kingdom at war again? Is Frigga ill? That would put Loki into such a low mood he might give up with painting altogether, and then what would Y/N do? Go back to methodologically cleaning his rooms? Go back to seeing in black and white?

"Yes, everything is fine. My father has just been struggling for some time to form an alliance with a neighbouring realm and my mother came up with a solution."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "Isn't that a good thing?"

Loki dragged his eyes up to meet Y/N's, one hand fiddling with a loose thread on his left sleeve. "She suggested an arranged marriage between the two royal families; to unite them."

"That makes sense." Y/N inclined both her shoulders nodding, her mother's voice echoing in her brain about matrimony being the smartest career-move a person can make. And it does make sense, after all; a staged relationship is a small price to pay in exchange for unity between kingdoms. They'll be able to share resources, soldiers for the next inevitable war---not to mention the cooperation will significantly lower the number of yearly invasions. "Although, isn't His Majesty Thor more of a warrior? I never saw him as the settling down type---

"Not Thor. Me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, how am I only, like, half way through this book


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not a Norse mythology nerd, I'm using a bit of artistic license and a lot of Google, so don't shout corrections at me or whatever, thanks

There's silence.

"What?"

"Due to the ever-looming threat of war, my father is trying to broker peace between the Aesir and the Vanir. Now that I'm old enough, Mother asked if I'd agree to an arranged marriage to the Vanirian princess---"

"No, I understood that, I just meant..." Y/N pushed his words away with one hand as if they were a swarm of something she was afraid would sting her. "What did you say in answer?"

Loki's eyebrows raised so far up his head they nearly brushed his widow's peak. "Are you joshing? I said _no_ , obviously."

For some reason this made Y/N release a breath she didn't know she'd been holding in.

"I understand that arranged marriages have brought kingdoms together in the past, but I refuse to marry someone I do not love." Loki had strayed over to the little table in the corner of the room where they usually prepare his paint. He distractedly flopped down to sit atop one of the table's surrounding cushions, his long body folding neatly like a Japanese fan.

There have been two pillows tucked under the table for a while, now, one for Y/N and one for Loki. He'd added one just to put an end to Y/N's pestering. She hated the thought that she---a lowly maid---was atop a plump cushion whilst a prince has to kneel on the bare floorboards; no matter how many times said prince insists that he doesn't mind. But Y/N was having none of it. He may have been brought up as a gentleman but _Y/N_ was raised a servant. Offering a lady the most comfortable place to sit may be the polite thing to do, but doing all in her power to make her master more comfortable is basically coded into Y/N's DNA. She didn't let it go, and on day three of Y/N's concerned little offers to at least swap the pillow between them in shifts, Loki had flounced to the other room and returned with a cushion from one of the numerous settees.

"Happy now?" He'd asked, a ghost of an amused smirk playing on his thin lips.

Y/N had wanted to say _'No! You're supposed to do it to make_ you _happy, not me! That defeats the whole point!'_ But at least his slender legs weren't crushed against the hardwood floor anymore, so she pressed her lips into a smile and gave a nod.

Presently, the prince was not wearing his trademark half-smile, his eyes following Y/N about as if she's a character in his favourite play. He's slumped over his crossed legs as if gravity is trying to claim him.

"Why does the majority of politics involve using lives as pawns?" he mused, taking the first box of pigment and tipping the crumbly lumps into the mortar. He's performing a task he usually enjoys, but his thoughts are clearly elsewhere. The look in his eyes is unusually vacant, a deep frown pressed into the place his laid-back expression would normally occupy.

Y/N got the sense that his question has been rhetorical. If it wasn't, he's come to the wrong person for diplomatic advice. All of Y/N's accumulated knowledge on governing a kingdom comes from folk-tales, stories passed around to amuse children, and scraps of information she'd overheard from other people just as clueless as she is. These are not reliable sources, so Y/N decided it would probably be best if she simply lets Loki's questions hang in the air.

He continued, addressing the room at large, his movements more animated as despair evolved into agitation: "Even though the entire system is corrupt, I can't help feeling selfish. I know I _should_ sacrifice my happiness for my kingdom, but wouldn't it be more logical to find a solution where _everyone_ can be happy?"

Y/N had joined him, lowering herself tentatively to kneel at his side. He's suddenly gazing at her with large eyes the colour of clover, as if looking to her for reassurance, an answer, something. Y/N wasn't sure what it was she should do to comfort him, or, more importantly, what she's _allowed_ to do.

If she had her way she'd tug him into a hug and press a delicate kiss to his forehead whilst muttering various versions of 'It'll all work itself out in the end'.

But that would not be permitted; legally as well as personally---probably. Y/N is pretty sure there's some rule about not laying a hand on members of the royal family, and Loki may not want her to anyway. With a sinking feeling, Y/N realised just how much she doesn't know about the prince; is he a hugger? Does he like playful touches and friendly kisses on the cheek in greeting? _He'd_ touched _her_ , occasionally---to show her how to work the pestle, etcetera, so he's probably not _averse_ to physical contact. But he's never done it out of affection. Never rested a hand on her back as he moves past her, or given a ludic little shove when they'd teased each other.

Despite this, Y/N found herself reaching out and placing her hand over the back of his.

It had been resting on the table, his pale, cool skin contrasting with the rich, deep grain of the wood below. His other hand---currently pushing the empty pigment box away from his workspace---ground to a halt and he looked down at Y/N's palm over his own. He'd stilled as if a switch had been flicked; like rapids suddenly turning to a quiet little stream.

Y/N's heart should be in her mouth. She should be trying to pass it off as a mistake, beg for forgiveness, or something. But she doesn't. It feels right, soothing him with a soft touch, his gaze rising to meet Y/N's eyes. He'd looked so sad. So uncharacteristically deflated, so oddly small. She gives his hand a comforting little squeeze.

He smiles.

"That's not selfish," her voice was sturdy, almost firm. She spoke as though she's physically handing him words, pressing them into his hands, closing his fingers around them like they're something to keep safe and close to heart. "No one can make you do anything you don't want to. And anyway, they're your parents. They don't _want_ you to be unhappy; they're probably trying to find an alternative solution as we speak."

Y/N imagined this. Imagined growing up in a family so rich her mum and dad saw her as their daughter rather than some sort of employee. Of course, she didn't know for sure that things were different for royalty; her knowledge of the royal family is limited at best, and, for a small horrible second, she'd wondered if her attempt at comforting had been wildly misjudged.

But Loki's smile broadened weakly, like sun rays through a cloud. "Thank you." The tension in his firmly set shoulders has eased, seeped from his airy shirt like Y/N's touch is a hot iron evaporating the droplets of anxiety as if they're water. "I don't know about Father, but Mother certainly is."

Y/N nodded and released his hand, taking the full mortar and its stubby little pestle. "There, see. Her Majesty probably only suggested an arranged marriage as a last resort."

The prince hadn't moved his hand---as if he missed it; Y/N's palm---or wasn't sure it had actually been there; over his. He just looked down at the bony ridge of his now exposed knuckles as Y/N began gently crushing the lumps of pigment into a powder on her side of the table.

She's good at it, now, after all these days, all these hours spent crouched in this room with the prince, pressing stubborn clumps of colour against the curved side of the mortar. The movement is comfortable and familiar to Y/N's arm and hand, an almost instinctual motion, the repetition of which induces a sense of calmness.

Rising from his stupor, Loki took a bowl from the little pile stacked up on the other side of the table, ready to mix the powder Y/N was creating with the other various ingredients that turned it into a spreadable paste.

They'd made three colours when something occurred to Y/N. It was rather embarrassing that it hadn't been her first thought. It hadn't even been her second, third or fourth; it was just an afterthought, a tiny little bud of concern blossoming at the back of her brain.

She felt bad for asking it. She didn't want to invoke any more self-loathing in the prince, especially after he'd expressed concern about being selfish. But she had to know, because anxiety had started tugging the edges of her mind, fraying her nerves.

"Should we be...concerned about the alliance? I know tensions have always been high between us and the Vanir, but will they be...you know...angry at you for rejecting their princess?"

Loki sighed in a way that suggested he'd probably been wondering the same thing. "We don't know. Probably. Maybe. It all depends on how diplomatic Father is."

Y/N's face fell. "Oh."

He made a single-syllable hum in his chest. "My thoughts exactly."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to imply---" Y/N tried, feeling the back of her neck suffuse with heat, but he shook his head.

"No, it's okay, you're right. Father isn't exactly known for his diplomatic finesse."

There was a brief, sombre silence while they both mulled this realisation over. It doesn't matter that Y/N was born so low down in the class system she'd never gotten a glimpse at politics; the situation between the Vanir and the Aesir is so famously Not Good that even she'd gotten wind of it. It's never been good, the threat of war has been hanging over the two realms for so long it's as familiar as the sun, the moon, and the trees. So familiar, in fact, she hadn't even thought about it for many years.

"Why can't Thor do it?" Y/N asked after some time. She didn't want to sound as if she thought she could ever understand such things---a maid asking about politics, what would Alfdis think?---but Loki didn't seem to mind explaining.

Maybe he's humouring her to distract himself from his uncertain future.

"Thor is next in line to the throne. Call him old fashioned, but Father would rather---if my brother ever does marry---that his bride has Aesir blood. If I agreed to the arranged marriage I'd have to live with the princess and her family in Vanaheim---because, as eldest, my bride is closer to inheriting the throne---her kingdom's throne---than I am."

"Lik a---"

"Hostage?" He muttered curtly. "That's what I said too."

The word made Y/N feel slightly sick. Any vows she'd made about keeping in her place shattered as she said:

"Surely we can think of an alternative way to broker peace?"

That made Loki smile again, another one of those watery-sun-through-a-rain-cloud smiles, and Y/N blushed.

She pressed her lips together, muttering into the mortar as she shoved the pestle about its insides. "I know, I know. What does a maid know about politics? But we have to try."

"No, it's not that." Loki's eyes were on the side of her face. His features seemed to be arranged in a way that conveyed kindness---Y/N could feel it rather than see it; like the heat of a fire or the warmth of a hot drink. "You said 'we'."

She met his gaze, puzzled. "What's funny about that?"

"It's not funny." He dipped his head back to the paint he's stirring, a few loose waves of his hair falling from his ear and hiding his face like a curtain.

Y/N wanted to reach out and tuck them back behind his helix.

"It just made me smile because I'm glad I'm not going through this alone."

His words crashed into Y/N's heart like birds flying into the pane of a window, thick thuds resonating through her as each syllable collided. She parted her lips, the whisper of a question leaking from between them:

"You're lonely?"

It confused her that she hadn't noticed before. Hadn't _felt_ it before. She'd just assumed he has other friends. Better, closer, higher-class friends that can relate to his plights. She'd put his solitude down to choice, labelled him a dedicated introvert but maybe...

Loki inclined his shoulders a few inches, up and then down, almost as though he was taking in a deep breath then expelling it. He'd been stirring the paste he holds in a small wooden bowl with the end of a paintbrush, watching it go around and around, but met Y/N's eyes again. "Less so, recently."

Y/N wanted to say something, then. Well, actually she wanted to kiss him; lean over and close up that pesky gap between them, press her lips to the narrow pink line of his. Maybe tangle her fingers in his hair, its infinite blackness filling the spaces between her fingers. She imagined it would feel like her hand is combing through space itself.

But obviously, she couldn't do that, so, as she's become very well-practised in doing, she dusted that whim under a metaphorical rug.

She should say something, instead. Something gentle, something reassuring, wise and comforting. Something that would expertly stitch his fraying nerves back together, fill his neglected heart with warmth.

But she doesn't know what. The words aren't coming. Well, she had words, but they weren't the _right_ words.

After all, she's not even sure she'd been entirely correct when she'd told Loki that no one can force him to do anything he doesn't want to. That promise had tasted bad on her tongue as it had rolled off the tip of it, the bitter hint of a lie prickling her taste buds. If Loki was the son of a working-class shoemaker, or even a middle-class jeweller, then _maybe_ such a statement might be true---but he's not. He's the youngest child in the royal family, youngest son of the Allfather. If the Allfather wants him to marry a princess to form an alliance between the kingdoms, Loki has essentially no say in the matter.

However, if they could---somehow---come up with an alternative, maybe Loki and the princess' freedom could be spared?

Y/N couldn't help pitying the princess Loki is semi-engaged to. Y/N is in a similar position herself with Arne---albeit, for Y/N a lot less is at stake. She feels pressured by parents to make a logical choice in a husband, to treat marriage as a career move rather than the act of love that it should be. Although, Y/N realised with a tensing of that muscle by her jaw; the corner the princess has been painted into is much nicer than Y/N's. The princess' future involves beautiful castles, full meals prepared by servants, and, eventually, a crown atop her head. Y/N's involves an apothecary's wages, more children than she can count, and---probably---a one-story house with only two rooms. Y/N would marry Loki for literally no reason, let alone to keep wars from popping up like mushrooms on a damp log. The princess will probably fall in love with him too, if she isn't in love with him already.

For some reason, this made Y/N all the more determined to come up with some kind of workaround, and, for the rest of the day, that's what she did. Loki attempted to make other light conversation; he asked Y/N about her trip to the market, after the health and happiness of Alfdis and Frode, whether Y/N wanted any more of the little cakes she'd brought from Aasta's stall---

But Y/N's answers were mostly kept to distracted single syllables as her brain churned away. She was so busy mentally wrangling in her very basic knowledge of politics that she didn't even look up when Loki licked frosting from the tips of his pale slender fingers with his sinfully attractive pink tongue.

Loki must have figured out what was occupying her mind because he too settled into a rivery after several failed attempts at conversation. The air became so thick with thoughts its consistency resembled that of soup, their minds working away silently to themselves as they methodologically passed pastes and pigments and powders back and forth.

Every now and again one of them would appear alert, like a startled hare, an idea having popped into their brain space. They'd voice it, place the unformed, desperate little proposal down on the table between them and pick it apart.

Some were kept; deemed not entirely ludicrous, and stored away for Loki to suggest to anyone that would listen as soon as he could. For example: why does the union have to be over people? Why not a _gift_ from the Aesir to the Vanir? Such as a piece of architecture or an ancient relic?

Other ideas were so feeble they died before they'd even been released; shrivelled up before they'd left the creator's mouth: Like faking Loki's death and simply fleeing the kingdom, never to return.

Sometimes they'd think an idea was perfect, indestructible, flawless, only to set it on the table, poke around a bit, and realise that it was a hail mary at best.

Then suddenly Y/N remembers something else; a little thought hidden amongst the rest. It seemed to have surfaced along with the rest of her contemplations, like how when you pull out one cable from a draw all the rest come out with it. It made her feel like she'd swallowed a heavy rock. Her voice was too light when she said, as casually as she could:

"Oh, by the way, I can't stay overtime today." That sentence stabbed her in the chest; a pang of guilt making her face pull into an apologetic grimace. Then the knife was then twisted in the wound when Loki asked a curious little:

"Oh?"

Y/N averted her eyes down to the pigment she was crushing; it's as blue as the sky on the first day of spring. "I'm meeting someone tonight. For the meteor shower." She shouldn't be. She should be here, with Loki, helping him pass the time by mixing, crushing, stirring.

Or brainstorming a way out of that blasted alliance.

Helping him with whatever he needs, because she's his friend.

He blinked, looking up from stirring a pale tanned sort of colour into a gloopy paste. Some of it had smudged onto his fingertips and even though the tone was barely that of parchment, it appeared dark against his alabaster skin. "You are?"

"Yes. Arne asked me to accompany him."

Loki's eyebrows pulled together to form one long dark line across his forehead. "Arne; Frode's apprentice?"

Y/N nodded. A mixture of guilt and dread had been gumming at her mind since yesterday; its insistent maw reminding her of her duty as a daughter, her responsibility as a provider to her ageing parents, and the fact that she's lying to Arne by acting interested. Recent developments aren't exactly helping to ease her conscience. She's going out for a pleasant evening whilst Loki stews in his own anxieties, alone. There's that tooth of guilt again, sinking into the soft flesh of her mind at that thought; she's leaving Loki alone on the evening he needs company.

But now that the sun has started to dribble down the sky and darkness sets in, the reality of what is to come has numbed that sense of dread and made way for guilty, curious anticipation.

She'll get to see a _meteor_ _shower_. She's never seen any kind of astrological event before; partly because she didn't know what they were until now---science is something servants need not concern themselves with---and partly because she'd been working. Or too tired from working. Whilst those with a lighter workload were outside under the stars watching comets or a lunar eclipse, Y/N was passed out in her bed totally unaware she was missing anything.

And Y/N likes Arne (granted, at the moment, only in a purely platonic way). They're easily more than acquaintances by now. They'll probably lounge back against the firm spread of the grassy hill, still pleasantly warm from the day's sunshine, and pass friendly words between each other as they watch the sky---do whatever it is it does during a meteor shower. Y/N had only been half-listening when Arne was explaining it at the market. She'll have to ask him kindly to repeat himself later; hopefully, she'll be able to crush her worries of the future down enough to pay attention this time.

"When are you meeting him?" Loki asked, his words slicing cleanly through Y/N stupor. He's not looking at her, and he's not really mixing the paint anymore; just sort of playing with it; dragging swirling patterns into its viscous surface, watching it settle back as it was and then cutting another line down its centre.

Y/N has known him long enough to sense that something is wrong---something _else_ \---but not long enough to guess as to what it might be.

"He's picking me up after dinner. He's meeting me when the moon is up."

Without raising his head, Loki said: "You should be going now, then."

He placed the paint he'd been mixing aside and took the mortar and pestle from Y/N's hands, pushing them aside too, then stood. Without helping her up, he crossed the studio to the door and held it open, watching Y/N with an expression she didn't recognise. All his features remained utterly still; blank, unreadable.

Slightly stunned, Y/N pushed herself onto her feet, her legs unstable without Loki's usual steadying hand and scolded herself; who is she to feel upset when a prince doesn't help her up?

But he usually does.

She left her half-ground mortar of blue, and looked over at the window. The evening's sky stretched out across the pane. Dusk is settling in, but slowly, at its own lazy, leisurely pace; she had time. Lots of time.

However, as soon as Y/N levelled with the prince at the studio door, he closed it, its smooth, cool surface bumping against her shoulder blades as the latch clicked into place. She opened her mouth to make a little surprised sound at the prince's urgency, but he was already walking in the direction of the door to his chambers.

Y/N had to pick up her pace to keep in time with his brisk strides, then stopped just before he ushered her out of his rooms completely. "Wait."

He halted, one pale hand about to curl about the doorknob.

"What pigments do you want me to get tomorrow?"

"Oh, right." In one smooth motion, he gravitated to the nearest dresser---littered with parchment and quills, as most of the flat surfaces in his chambers are---and plucked up a fat white feather with one hand. When he'd noted down tomorrow's pigments he handed it to Y/N, and she frowned at it.

The list consisted of only two colours---the amount he'd need scribbled next to each piteously small.

So his self-portrait must be nearing completion? But it doesn't look that way; even with the colours they prepared today, it feels miles away from even half resembling the prince. Y/N let her eyes follow the slightly more hurried than usual curls of his looping lettering. Two things puzzled her; one was the degraded state of his hand-writing, and the other was the words it formed. Y/N is familiar with the names of each colour by now---the pigments that make them---and she recognises these two immediately. One as a type of green and the other a delicate pink.

No charcoal-black for his hair.

No white to lighten the skin tone to his milky hue.

"Is this all?" Y/N asked, raising her head from the scrap of paper to meet the prince's eyes.

"Yes. The painting is nearly finished." He didn't sound nearly as happy about that fact as Y/N thought he would.

When he'd shown her the marketplace piece he'd seemed bashfully proud, the lightest shade of red touching his cheeks and the tips of his ears at her praise. Now, though, his voice is flat and as expressionless as his face when he says:

"With the paint we made today, and then this, it will be complete."

Y/N opened her mouth, but his words pushed her own back into her chest before she'd even strung them into a sentence:

"You really should be going, you'll be late."


	12. Chapter 12

Y/N had stood outside his door for several seconds before collecting herself up enough to make any kind of movement. 

She’d upset the prince somehow, that much was clear. She just didn’t know what she’d said; or done. She’s always so careful, so aware of her place and the great divide between their social status. Her brain combs every sentence for faux pas before a single syllable even gets anywhere near her lips.

Was he angry at her for not staying overtime? They’d almost finished preparing today's paints, there was only one box of pigment left to convert to a paste. Surely he could manage that on his own? And it’s not like she'd skipped _actual_ work. She'd said she couldn't stay overtime. That's _extra_ work; it's not _mandatory,_ and she doesn't even accept pay when she _does_ stay late. It’s _his_ fault she hadn’t actually finished her shift; he’d practically shoved her out the door like she had some kind of plague. 

The prince had been so eager for Y/N to leave, she hadn’t managed to grab her cleaning supplies on the way out. He hadn’t given her a chance to ask him to fetch it, either. She expected he’d turn around and see her bucket and mop propped up against the wall, then the door would open and he’d sheepishly push them into her waiting hands. 

But it’s been just over a minute of Y/N staring at that door, waiting for it to open, her eyes sliding boredly over the intricate little designs littered over its surface. Over a minute of nothing happening, the corridor vast and silent. 

She’ll have to just leave her mop and bucket with the prince for the night. That makes more sense than dragging them back and forth between the servants quarters and the rooms she has to clean, but, obviously, Alfdis would have some kind of anxiety attack if she knew. Maids are supposed to be seen and not heard, let alone leave their dirty rags and pails lying around as if the royal family’s quarters are their own personal cupboard. 

With a sigh---of puzzlement over the past five minutes, more than anything---Y/N began the long trek to the mess hall. She'll tackle her anxieties over the prince's strange behaviour at a later date. For now, she has other things to worry about. 

Like trying to make herself fall in love with an apothecary's apprentice.

Arne had said he’d put together a picnic for them both, but Y/N thought it best to eat a little something before she goes, just so she doesn’t look like a ravenous animal as soon as food is presented. She’d been so preoccupied with trying to free the prince from his obligations to the neighbouring kingdom that she’d barely touched today’s snack; a plate of little thumb-sized cakes the colour of cherry-blossoms. 

…

Arne was waiting for Y/N as soon as the moon was at its highest point in the sky. 

You had to sift through endless amounts of stars to find it; that thin little sliver of pearly white hanging as if suspended on a string. Perfect for watching meteorites, Arne had pointed out, gesturing to the vast expanse of blackness before them, freckled with jewel-like dots; far away suns probably long-since deceased (another thing Arne had taught her). Y/N didn’t think the sky looks like an infinite vacuum. She thinks it more closely resembles a reel of rich velvet material the colour of ink, sprawled over the horizon like a blanket. As if someone is trying to hide what lays beyond from view.

They laid back against the reassuring curve of Sól Hill, their shoulders shielded from the damp grass by a wide mat Arne had borrowed from his family’s living room. As they waited for the meteorites---large hunks of rock from outer space, Arne had patiently explained again when asked---they chatted about various things. Arne told Y/N in his low, warming voice about his job, growing up with five brothers, his kindly mother and never-quite-satisfied father---

Y/N listened dutifully, welcoming the distraction. For this evening she is not a maid. She doesn’t have to sweep or dust or crush anything, she doesn’t even have to talk if she doesn’t want to. Arne isn’t her employer, a prince, a son of the Allfather, he’s just a friend, and his words feel good tugging her mind away from politics and peace treaties. All his stories are sun-dappled, entwined with mellow laughter, and warm like a comfortable fire purring away in a hearth.

Every now and again, a tension would clench hard in Y/N’s middle. It was as though a rope is wrapped about her torso, her anxieties tugging it tighter every time she looked over at the long shadow of Arne sprawled next to her and remembered why she’d agreed to see him; what he’s probably thinking. 

Courtship is a simple thing for the Asgardian working class. It’s almost a chore, something most people seem to rather just get over with as soon as possible so they can progress to more productive things. Like producing a child. You don’t date, you find someone who doesn’t utterly hate your guts. You don’t propose; you mutually agree to a legal contract. Even their wedding day is expected to be a bland and formal affair; most people can’t afford a large party, and many of the guests are relatives who are just relieved you found someone before you grew too old to attract a partner. 

The entire process of meeting someone and settling down is over rather quickly.

Arne’s brain is most certainly already filled with hopeful dreams of the future, and Y/N is probably in every single one. She should be having the same thoughts; wishing it was lighter so she could properly admire his slender, speckled face, wondering what he’ll look like in ten, twenty, thirty years, and not being able to wait to find out. 

But she still feels nothing. 

Y/N can’t help wondering how long it will be before she’s married to the man next to her, a baby already wailing away in a crib. That made her stomach tie itself into a bowline knot, rather than her heart flutter excitedly as it should.

So she tried not to think about it. 

She thought about Arne’s story of how, as a child, he’d try to cure his brothers with home remedies his mother taught him when they fell over and scuffed their knees. 

She thought about the other people---all sweethearts---dotted about their hill, their soft, hushed conversations buzzing about like moths in the gloom. The couples looked like cake decorations, like sprinkles dusted over the mound of earth and grass. Some are clearly familiar lovers, nestled almost on top of each other. Others are---like Y/N and Arne---shyly keeping a respectful foot or two apart, bashfully averting their gaze to the heavens and blushing when they catch each other’s eyes.

And Y/N thought about the meteor shower. It proved a worthy distraction from the undulating soup of thoughts, worries, and emotions currently sloshing about her skull. 

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it had not been this. It started gradually at first, just one tiny light blooming then sliding across the sky. Arne had pointed it out, taking Y/N’s hand and giving it a little shake as he excitedly gestured into the air. Y/N followed the line of his arm to the first meteor and watched its blazing trail, her lips parted in wonder. 

Then it was gone. 

Y/N had turned to Arne, her brow furrowed, ready to ask him if that was what all these people had come out to see. Probably guessing what she'd been thinking, he laughed, a tumbling of syllables and reached out, softly turning Y/N’s face back to the sky. 

“There’s more,” he’d said, and Y/N settled back onto the mat, tugging her shawl tighter about herself. 

It wasn’t cold, just slightly bitter, the night air setting into Y/N’s bare face and hands. Arne said the colder the better; as clouds could form if it was too hot, and block the sky. Y/N didn’t mind the cold. She’d become much more fond of its crisp embrace in recent months. She finds it to be rather refreshing and almost soothing, like an icepack to a bruise, or a glass of water at three in the morning. She barely noticed the temperature as the sky suddenly came alive.

More meteorites started to appear, blooming, dribbling down the sky then pittering out, sometimes ten at once, cutting the velvet night to ribbons. 

…

Arne walked Y/N back to the palace afterwards, exhilarated recollections of what they’d just witnessed pouring from their grinning faces the entire way there. 

He didn’t ask anything of Y/N that she was not willing to give, just simply bid her a verbal, friendly goodnight. 

Y/N gave him a kiss on the cheek anyway, pushing herself up on tiptoes to do so. He had shown her something truly wonderful, her chest is still tingling with the magic of it, and she wanted him to feel the same way. It was the least she could do. She still hadn’t felt anything like that for him, and it broke her heart.

...

Y/N’s eyes were slightly heavy when she tentatively knocked on the prince’s chambers the next morning. The meteor shower had cut a large chunk out of her sleep and, even though it was worth it, the consequences were quickly making themselves known. 

Sleep itself; when eventually achieved; had also been fitful and patchy. The worries Y/N had stomped down enough to enjoy her evening out had come back with a vengeance; like angry beasts escaped from a cage. 

Loki having to marry someone else bothered Y/N more than she thought it should; her fixation with his plight was bemusing at best, and the more she turned over the _reason_ for her emotional involvement, the more distressed she became. She doesn’t want him marrying the Vanir princess. She doesn’t want him marrying _any_ princes, any woman or man or anything. The mental image of him kissing someone made something tighten around her neck like a noose, a muscle in her jaw feather. And something sad wilt and die deep in her chest.

Saving the prince from a life tied to a woman he barely knows and certainly doesn’t love wasn’t the only thing rampaging its way around Y/N’s brain late last night. She couldn’t stop contemplating Loki’s sudden---and somewhat irrational---change of character the evening before. Y/N had replayed their interactions over in her head hundreds of times and still couldn’t identify a point in which she’d said or done anything that might have upset him. 

Because of this, even though she received no answer after timidly rapping a knuckle on his door, Y/N entered his chambers with diffident footsteps. 

There was her mop and bucket, still in the same place as she’d been made to leave them. Making a mental note to replace the dirty water, she strayed to the study to set today’s pigments down on the table. When she got there, after trailing through the string of rooms leading up to the little one at the end, she found the door already hanging open, a narrow plank of light seeping through the gap and falling onto the floor.

She lifted a hand to knock, but, for the first time, hesitated. Nervousness overruled the usual pull she felt from the prince, the knowledge that he’s just on the other side of this door making her pause. 

Is he still angry at her? 

Was he ever angry? 

Should she do what servants are supposed to do; leave the pigments on a nearby countertop and scuttle away, neither to be seen nor heard?

She was half a second away from turning around and tiptoeing back to her mop when the door opened.

The prince stood, looking down at her. Well, Loki stood looking down at her. He looks more like Loki now, features softer than they’d been before, his demeanour collected and serene like the surface of a lake. Even that small smile in greeting Y/N has become so accustomed to graced his narrow lips.

He's pleased to see her.

Y/N’s shoulders visibly loosened.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” He stepped aside to let Y/N past, his usual, welcoming, gesture sweeping her into the room. Averting his eyes, and almost immediately---a soft edge of genuine remorse to his tone---he uttered: “Apologies for snapping at you yesterday. I’m under a lot of pressure. That’s not an excuse, I’m just explaining my actions. Please don’t make the mistake of thinking my anger was directed or caused by you.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N muttered meekly, and he shook his head. 

“It’s not. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I---”

He was saying more things, handing over more apologies and metaphorically pressing them into Y/N’s palms but she waved them off. Partly because one had been enough---she’s just thankful they’re on the same page again---and partly because she’d noticed something.

The easel is empty.

"Where's the picture?” She asked, so preoccupied she didn’t even realise she’d interrupted a prince. Straying over to the canvas: “You didn't do that thing some artists do where they decide they hate their work and burn the whole thing, did you?" 

A laugh ghosted her ear and she turned around to come face to face with the light material of Loki’s green shirt. It has a line of buttons down the middle, transparent, glassy things like dewdrops on a leaf. The first three are open. It made her mouth go very dry.

"No,” Loki soothed, clearly registering her distress. His silken tones curled around Y/N’s nerves, pacifying them like a heavy palm running over the arched spine of an anxious cat. His words, however, had the opposite effect when he said simply: “I just wanted to finish it by myself." 

Y/N blinked up at him. 

He wants to finish it alone? Y/N felt like he’d suddenly and forcefully slammed a door in her face. A door that had, for the past few months, been wide and welcomingly open. Why the sudden change of heart? It was a stark reminder---the only time he'd reminded her---that he was above her. Not her equal. That there is a door between them to close at all. 

Trying to iron the surprise (and disappointment) from her expression, Y/N licked her lips and turned back to the easel. It looked strange. Empty. Wrong. Its three spindly little stick legs appear too light without a hefty block of stretched cotton, wooden frame, and millimetre of paint to weigh it down. Y/N half expected it to start rising off the ground and get pushed about the room whenever a gust of wind wafted in from the open bay windows. 

The prince must have sensed that he’d wounded her in some way because he asked lightly---in an effort to distract Y/N’s sombre gaze from the vacant spot in the centre of the room:

“How was the meteor shower?" 

Still not having turned around: “Pretty.” There was a pause while Y/N let her eyes follow a column of sunlight from the paint-speckled floor to the massive panes of glass on the opposite wall. The kingdom stretched out across their entire length, the top half of the frame filled with blue sky, the lower half hundreds stuffed with hundreds of rooftops; like a humongous child had spilt all her toy blocks onto the side of a mountain. “Did you catch it? You must have a great view from the palace.”

“Yes,” Loki said from some way behind her. “Although I prefer looking at planets.”

This _did_ make Y/N spin around to face him. He smiled at the simple gesture like her face was a flower he’d been waiting to bloom. Her eyes were all wide and brimming with wonder and he liked it. 

“You can see other planets? How?”

“With a telescope,” he replied simply. He'd given a tiny shrug of the broad line of his shoulders, his buttons lightning up as they shifted about. They’re like his eyes, Y/N later contemplated; always changing colour; deep pine-needle green one minute, then a pale seafoam sort of hue th next.

She looked blank so he clarified:

"The machine in the lounge by the window." The corners of his lips tugged into a ghost of a smirk, one dark eyebrow arching. "Didn't you ever take a look through it when you were in here alone? Out of curiosity?"

"Look _through_ it?" This only confused Y/N more, and she pretended to frown crossly as Loki actually opened his mouth to laugh at her, the smooth wedges of his teeth exposed.

“I’ll show you.” 

…

The prince led Y/N back through the strings of rooms, his bare feet, as always, utterly soundless as he padded over the bare floor. It---the floor, that is---varies widely from room to room, or even from parts of the room to other parts of that same room. Some areas are raised, others lowered; sunken down and lined with soft pillows or curving settees. You can’t walk in a straight, unwavering line from room to room as the crow flies, you have to meander, almost, trace around pits and platforms, tables, pillars and columns of marble. 

Y/N wondered how the prince’s feet never seem to suffer from cold. Yes, his chambers benefit from a surplus of natural light, but that doesn’t change the fact that the majority of his flooring is long, dark slats of wood or smooth slabs of polished marble. Y/N can feel the ground through the thin material of her slippers as she tries to keep up with Loki’s swift and smooth navigation of his quarters. Every time she treads on a patch of floor swamped in sunlight from one of the numerous windows, she can feel the pleasing warmth greeting her soles, and, when they pass through a shadow, the opposite occurs. How can Loki be comfortable going without so much as a slip-on shoe, or a pair of light stockings at least? Affording them is definitely not an issue. It’s obviously a personal preference. 

And his clothes. Even when he approached Y/N on the steps outside the palace---what feels like decades ago---he’d only been draped in wide, spacious trousers, and a matching shirt, both items made from that green gauzy material he’s so fond of. His breath hadn’t even bloomed in front of him as he’d softly asked her to extend the raw palms of her hands. 

She’s staring at his airy trousers now, watching the baggy hem flap loosely about his pale ankles with each step. Watching the prince is always interesting, to Y/N, anyway. He’s so bony you can see how he’s put together; how his body works as the tendons in his hand tighten and curl when he picks things up, how the joint at the top of his feet rolls and pushes him forwards as he walks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They get together soon, guys, I promise---we're only, like, halfway through the story. You're being so patient, thank you. At least in MY story they actually DO get together; I waited for the entire book for what's-her-name and that guy from 'Girl With A Pearl Earring' to get together and NOTHING HAPPENED! Amazing book, though, go read it.  
> Sorry I'll shut up now.


	13. Chapter 13

Y/N was so focused on this---how Loki seems to begin each step on the balls of his toes then finish them on the base of his heel---that she hadn’t even noticed he’d come to a stop. 

“Hello,” he chuckled down at her, a rumbling curl of amusement as she bumped into his back and went the colour of strawberries. 

“Sorry,” she choked out, trying not to let her mind wander to what she’d just experienced; his torso is just as firm as she’d imagined it to be (not that she  _ had  _ imagined it, obviously). The entirety of her weight, plus the momentum of her brisk pace, had collided with the narrow pillar of Loki’s body and he hadn’t been thrown the slightest bit off balance. He hadn’t even become slightly unsteady; he’d just looked down at her curiously, like she was a small butterfly that had just flown into him by accident. 

Loki didn’t seem to have paid Y/N’s apology for invading his personal space any mind, maybe because he didn’t see it as necessary, but mostly because he now appears to be thoroughly absorbed in something else. “We won’t be able to see any planets because it’s daytime,” he explained, leaning over something long and heavy-looking. 

Y/N figured this must be the famed ‘telescope’, but  _ she _ knew it as the golden barrel-like thing she liked to make funny faces in whilst polishing its curved surface. She’d spent many hours in this room, rubbing fingerprints from the little dials, but had no idea what it was, or how it worked. In fact, up until now, she didn’t even know it ‘worked’ at all. The fact that it was always so covered in fingerprints _at_ _all_ only puzzled her more. 

“I thought this was some kind of statue I didn’t understand,” Y/N said, taking a step closer to it as the prince did something quite strange:

He’d dipped his head to the narrow end, where a little stub of metal branched off from the main frame, and was resting one eye against it. Y/N would have assumed he’d gone slightly mad, had one of his slender hands not been expertly fiddling with one of the knobs, turning it one way and then the next, each adjustment minute and delicate and laced with purpose. 

As he turned it, part of the machine---for Y/N had realised that that’s what this thing is---a  _ machine _ \---moved slightly. It elongated, just a fraction, the largest part of it inclining a centimetre or two towards the pane of the window, then edging back again, like the neck of a tortoise retreating into its shell. 

“It’s not art, technically, but I think it’s easily beautiful enough to be, don’t you?” Loki asked, his face still lowered to the tapered end of the telescope.

Y/N nodded, then realised he couldn’t see her.

He's still fiddling with things and squinting into that little stub of metal protruding from the skinny end of the gold tube. 

“Yes.” Y/N wasn’t lying; it is beautiful, she’d always thought so, even if she didn’t understand it. 

Is there something _inside_ it? Is that what Loki is staring at so intently? 

“I like the big end,” she added, watching the prince’s slim fingers continue to turn various things. “The end full of curved glass that feels like looking into a giant eye.”

Loki, satisfied with whatever he’d been doing, straightened, his mouth curved into a good-natured smile. This object is clearly one of his most prized possessions; he’s obviously relishing in Y/N’s curiosity. His passion for it---whatever it is---plainly goes beyond the fact that it’s worth a lot of money, that it’s cased in solid gold, and contains more glass than Y/N’s parent’s entire house. He’s eager to show it off, and steps back to do so. 

“You’re kind of right, it is like a giant eye. But it’s not  _ full  _ of glass; not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.” He gave her a knowing look, the edge of a smirk tugging one side of his mouth. “You were picturing it like water in a cup, weren’t you? The glass filling the entire tube to such a point it almost overflows at this end---” He gestured to the large, curved bud of glass pointing at the horizon. “---You think that’s why it's curved. Don’t you?” He sounded amused rather than condescending. Like a kindly teacher walking through the thought process of a student’s answer to a complicated math question. 

Although, Y/N couldn’t make that comparison because she has never had a teacher. School for Y/N was her mother feeding her the snippets of wisdom she’d picked up over the years as she folded clothes, hunched over steaming pots, or swept dust out the door and onto the streets. 

Y/N nodded, because that’s exactly how she’d imagined it. She’d never dared try to move or push the telescope over, but she could easily feel its sturdiness, its mass, as she dragged a rag back and forth over its robust legs. They’re not dainty like the easel’s, although they are both tripods of some sort. The telescope’s legs are planted firmly on the tiled floor, so dense Y/N assumed it  _ had  _ to be full of glass. 

“It actually has several pieces of glass rather than just one. The whole thing is hollow, so light can travel up and down it. This piece takes in the light.” Loki gestured at the wider end. “It’s curved so it can bend it into focus, and then it travels down this tube.” His extended finger slid down the long length of the telescope’s barrel-like body. “Then there’s a mirror here.” The finger ground to a halt. “Which reflects the light and sends it to the eyepiece.” 

Y/N tilted her head to the side, narrowing her eyes. She understood that everything they see is visible because of light bouncing off surfaces; this is common knowledge; after all, Asgard is a place of advanced technological expertise. Even the lower classes aren’t utterly stupid, they are familiar with a few of the basic laws of day to day physics. 

No, what confused Y/N was:

“Why?”

Loki’s smile grew. He knew Y/N’s reaction to the telescope’s purpose---when he eventually let her look through the eyepiece herself---would be entertaining. He feels like a child about to unwrap a present, or play a particularly devious prank on an unsuspecting peer. “This is how I drew that picture of the deer.”

This statement was met with anticipated confusion. 

“Take a look.” He gestured at the eyepiece, or whatever he’d called it---that thing he’d rested his face on for some time a few minutes ago. “You don’t need to touch anything, just look through the part I was looking through.”

Hesitantly, Y/N moved around and awkwardly tried to replicate his earlier stance; bent over the narrow end of the tube, one eye leaning against the little cradle. At first, she’d had one eyebrow raised sceptically, still half wondering whether this was all some kind of elaborate ruse. She’d place her eye on that little cup-shaped bit and then something would happen; she didn’t know what, but it would make the Loki laugh. After all, why else would a prince take the time to introduce a member of the help to such a machine if not to amuse himself?

But she’d seen Loki look through it; to no ill effects, and now that she’s in the correct position (she assumed it was correct; Loki hadn’t told her otherwise), it felt rather comfortable. It felt...right, as if the whole thing had been designed specifically for this purpose. Maybe he's just proud of his machine and wants to share it with someone? 

At first, Y/N saw nothing. She knew she was supposed to see something; though, because the prince had mentioned light and images---it made sense. So she blinked, and moved her head slightly, bringing it a little further back so she wasn’t plating her eye-socket on the rim of the cradle, just hovering somewhat above it. 

And then suddenly she could see everything.

Well, not everything. That’s just it; she could see only a little  _ part _ of everything. Trees. A few metres squared of trees, their leaves flowing in time with the wind, their shiny underbellies flashing as they caught the rays of the sun. 

Y/N fell back in shock, taking a few steps away from the telescope like it was infected with a plague she didn't want to catch. Her jaw opened and closed but no words came, they were all jammed up in her throat as they fought to be the first out of her mouth.

Loki was laughing. It was a wonderful noise. Unguarded, proper laughs bubbling all the way up from his stomach like fat little beads of air in a fizzy drink. 

“I don’t understand” Y/N managed to stammer after a little while of her gaze darting from the window to the telescope, and back to the window again. 

The sun’s rays were falling in the same direction, the wind was rolling over the kingdom to the same rhythm as it had tugged at the tree’s leaves, the levels of light was the same---

“It was like looking through a miniature window with trees right outside. But the trees aren't right outside, they’re all the way over there---”

“You  _ are _ looking at those trees.” Loki calmed his giggling enough to point along the barrel of the telescope to the woods beyond, protruding from a hill like a clump of bristly mushrooms. “The telescope makes things you’re looking at appear bigger. That’s what the glass does when it bends the light.” 

Y/N still seemed to be in some kind of shock, so he kept talking, perhaps scared he’d broken her:

“You know when you look through a glass of water, everything on the other side seems larger?” 

Y/N nodded, managing to break her gaze from the telescope and bring it up to watch Loki’s face as he calmly dismantled the miracle she’d just witnessed as if it was nothing more than a simple trick you show to children.

“The glass does the same thing as the water, just better. So much better, we can see things way off in the distance very clearly.” 

Tentatively, Y/N approached the eyepiece again, and bent down to it, holding in a breath. She was ready for it this time; that crystal-clear image of dancing leaves as large as though she were right next to them, so she didn’t leap back. But it still made her jaw fall open as she stared, wide-eyed down that little tube. “Are you sure it’s not magic?” She asked when she’d found her voice again, and heard another amused chuckle---from beside her, this time.

“Not magic, just physics.” The prince had gotten closer, and Y/N continued to stare, awestruck, at the twirling leaves all those miles away. With the tangy sweetness of Loki’s cologne, it was as though she could smell them, the sap from the trees, the dew on the grass. They might as well be in the woods right now, taking a stroll amongst the vibrant colours. 

It was disconcerting how much that mental picture appealed to her. 

It was also an odd sensation to see leaves tossing themselves about in the breeze, but not hear them. Y/N felt as though she had suddenly turned deaf, and longed for that familiar susurration of membranes brushing up against each other each time a gust of wind rattled through the forest like air into lungs. 

“This is how you drew the deer? You made it look bigger by looking through this?” She’d pulled away from the machine, her head admittedly starting to feel like a marble was rolling about inside it, and Loki nodded. 

He seemed pleased she’d figured it out for herself, a look bordering on admiration lighting his pale eyes to a pleasant pastel green, like the flesh of an avocado. “Exactly.

“So it can look at other things? Not just this tree?”

This got another little laugh, the prince finding the idea of a machine designed specifically to focus on one particular piece of foliage very amusing. “Yes, it can look at whatever you point it at. And, by turning this dial, you can see things closer or farther away, it’s up to you.”

He hadn’t meant that literally, but Y/N took it that way. 

“Can we look at the town?” 

“Now?” 

“Sorry, is it difficult to do? You made it sound easy.”

“No, it’s not difficult. It’s just, you see the town every day. You can look at anything, the falls, the mountainside, the ocean, whatever you want.”

“I know. But can we see the town first? I want to see all the people walking about.”

…

With a smile, Loki re-adjusted the telescope so Y/N could spy on the unsuspecting patrons of an alehouse, a stall selling fruit, a barber, a family on a morning constitutional. 

Then she wanted to see the other things he’d mentioned, waterfalls and mountains, so he introduced her to them too. 

By this point, he’d shown her how to operate the telescope herself so he didn’t have to keep nudging her out the way every time she wanted to look at something else. He’d shown her how---if you undo a clasp on each side of the barrel---the whole thing can swing around on an axis, watching with fond amusement as she quickly got the hang of angling the telescope’s long, shiny body wherever her curiosity took her. 

...

Loki had spread himself neatly over a nearby chaise lounge---some time ago, by the looks of it---and was watching Y/N with an unreadable expression. The expression was soft and mellow, like a cat warming itself before a fire. It didn't seem to bother him that Y/N, his maid, is playing with one of the most expensive items in the whole of his chambers---and she's playing with it with so much ease one might mistake her for its rightful owner (if she wasn't dressed very much like a maid). He'd be happy to watch her toy with it all day.

Y/N didn't toy with it all day; just an hour and a half. When she finally pulled away from the eyepiece (feeling as though she'd surfaced from being underwater) she winced as she straightened her spine. The vertebrae in her back were protesting after so long holding her at a right angle, but the grin hadn't left her face. The metaphorical marble of pain in her head must have fallen out of one of her ears once she'd gotten used to the experience the telescope provided. After becoming comfortable with the sensation, Y/N had lost track of all sense of time; she'd swing the barrel-like body one way to spy on a bird's nest, then dip it down a little, carefully turn the dial, and watch a small child plucking apples from a tree she probably didn't own. Or angle the bulging lense as far to the right as it could go and follow the river into the centre of town, watching the boats get dragged along by the current like wooden toys in a bathtub. She'd even gotten a glimpse of one of the kitchen staff sneaking a kiss from her sweetheart in the little patch of trees behind the servant's quarters. 

The telescope made Y/N felt connected to the world but in a very incognito way; she was interacting with it, but _it_ didn't know that. She felt as though she'd explored one entire side of the kingdom whilst swaddled in an invisibility cloak. 

When she realised Loki had been watching her with a small smile, her cheeks heated. Had he been there this entire time? Had he seen the delight spread over her features at the baby birds chirping away in their nest? Her amused smirk at the girl stealing apples? The shocked gasp at Bodil sneaking a break from work to kiss boys in a clump of bushes? 

His long legs are all stretched out before him, one arm lazily bent at the armrest to prop up his chin. And there's that look he's giving her, and she has no idea what it means. Well, Y/N knows what half of it means. It means that, yes, he's been watching her, and he's found the show very entertaining. 

Y/N apologised for hogging the telescope for so long, then, when he said nothing, she got embarrassed and blamed _him_ for _letting_ her hog it for so long. This also got no reply, just a twitch at one corner of his narrow lips, so Y/N suggested, the back of her neck uncomfortably hot, that she get back to work. 

Loki shrugged at this, as if it was all the same to him, and asked if Y/N was sure she didn't want to play with the telescope a little more. She'd assumed he was making fun of her and---momentarily forgetting herself---gave his side a playful little shove. 

As soon as she'd realised what she'd done, a sudden pang of horror skittered its way down her spine. She'd _shoved_ a _prince_. Granted, it was a playful little shove, roughhousing, really, but still. She can't _roughhouse_ with a _prince_. 

Even though his smile had widened. 

And he'd let himself go floppy enough to be pushed slightly to the left, pliant and yielding and submissive. 

And his pale cheekbones had gone pink. 

...

Y/N had wondered---well, hoped---that when they returned to the studio, Loki would bring out his painting and set it back where it belongs; on the easel. They’d gotten along well as he showed her the kingdom through his telescope, the usual ease and familiarity their friendship usually exhibits back and as strong as ever. Y/N couldn’t help assuming that all was back to normal. She’d gotten it into her head that the prince would change his mind about finishing the picture alone, and, as soon as Y/N had made the first pigment into paint, he’d sit at his easel and use it, as had become his way in recent weeks. He’d walk about, squint and stare at the painting while Y/N crushes up the first colour, occasionally straying over to snatch something to nibble on. Then, when Y/N had ground everything up, he’d kneel by her side to add the egg white while she began the next colour. When the first paint was ready, he’d migrate back to the easel and start dabbing it on, pausing every now and again to do a bit more squinting and staring.

But that didn’t happen. Y/N sank into her pillow at the low, paint-stained table, and, rather than retrieving the painting, Loki neatly folded his legs next to her, waiting for the pigment she was grinding to be passed over to his side of the workspace so he could stir in the egg white. 

His demeanour remained amicable, and they passed playful conversation back and forth as usual, but he remained by Y/N’s side the entire time. 

When he'd paint in Y/N's presence he’d narrow his eyes at the colours already on the canvas or his palette, and mix the new paint accordingly; adjusting its viscosity, transparency, hue, etcetera, as needed. Not this time. He just let Y/N rub the powdery lumps against the curved edge of the mortar, hand him the results, then processed it entirely from memory. 

Not that that was a difficult task, Y/N realised. Yesterday, he’d said the painting was nearing completion---even if it didn’t look that way---and the amount of pigment they were preparing today was piteously small. Plus, the prince had stared at that same image for so many hours it’s probably etched into the inside of his skull. He knows what it needs, exactly what colours and thickness the finishing touches need to be. 

Because they were making that---the finishing touches---Y/N and Loki finished making paint much earlier than usual. Y/N watched Loki’s pale hand push the end of his mixing paintbrush around the last little bowl of colour, her own unoccupied hands feeling self-conscious. She didn’t know what to do with the extra time. 

Usually, she’d clean Loki’s chambers from noon until about 2:00 pm. seeing as she has them to herself while he breakfasts---or does whatever it is he does each day just after waking up. Then, upon his return, they’ll migrate to his studio and spend the rest of the day making paint. 

It had quickly become obvious that the prince requested Y/N’s services not because he wanted his rooms cleaned, but because he wanted someone to help him prepare his pigments so he could get stuck into his paintings. With Y/N’s help, he doesn’t have to keep stopping to mash and stir things; she does that quietly in the background, letting him remain focused on the task at hand. 

Plus, he seems to like the company.

That is why, now that the pigments have been prepared hours earlier than usual, Y/N doesn’t really know how she should proceed. 

Eventually, she offered to complete the cleaning she hadn't gotten done this morning---even if the prince doesn't exactly care if his chambers get cleaned or not. To this, he turned suddenly thoughtful. Then he came to a conclusion and said: 

“Do you want to take the rest of the day off? I won’t tell Alfdis so you’ll still get a full day's wages.”

Y/N thought about it. His generosity didn’t surprise her by now, she’d almost been expecting this response, and yet she still hadn’t landed on an answer. 

If she took the day off, what would she do? What do people do when they’re not working in the middle of the week? And, seeing as the people she’d usually spend her time with are still sweeping, scrubbing and polishing right now, who would she do it with? 

It had quickly occurred to Y/N that she’d rather spend the rest of the day here, with Loki. It was also at this moment, as he kneeled before her and kindly offered her an afternoon of paid free will, that she realised why she’s become so fond of the cold. 

She'd become fond of the cold because Loki is always cold. He’s sensitive and generous and all those other things usually attributed with warmth, but he’s not warm, he’s cool like a refreshing shower at the end of a hot day. He’s a cold towel pressed to your forehead when you have a fever, an iced drink after a meal. He’s paddling in a stream or dipping your toes in the bitter waves of the ocean, and Y/N  _ likes _ being with him. 

“I don’t need a day off.”

Loki opened his mouth, so she added before he could try to persuade her otherwise:

“I don’t know what I’d do with one. Why don’t I just stay here and do my job? You know, as your  _ housemaid? _ ” She felt she needed to remind him what she’s actually supposed to be doing when she comes up to his chambers every day; what everyone else  _ thinks _ she does. “I’m a maid that never actually gets around to doing much cleaning.”

This made his lips twitch into a smile, but he said: “But I’d feel bad watching you clean while I just lounge about---”

“But that’s my  _ job---” _

Utterly ignoring her protests: “So why don’t I help you?”


	14. Chapter 14

It took Loki several minutes to explain the concept of ‘help’ to Y/N, then several minutes _more_ to persuade her to let him actually do it.

“I used to clean every single one of these rooms myself before you came along,” he protested indignantly---a curt reminder that he isn’t exactly useless.

“I don’t mean you don’t have the _ability_ to help me,” Y/N spelt out, her cheeks heating at the thought that she’d insulted him. “I mean you _shouldn't_ help me. A prince helping a maid clean?” The words felt wrong on her tongue, amorphous blobs of syllables clunking about her mouth. “If Alfdis knew I’d let you do my chores for me she’d---”

With a shrug: “Alfdis won’t find out. And I’m not doing them _for_ you, I’m doing them _with_ you. What I don’t understand is why you aren’t leaping at a paid day off. You should be out there right now, enjoying the sun, or whatever.”

Is that what he would _rather_ she do? Y/N wondered, a lump forming somewhere between her mouth and her chest. Would he rather she leave him be? 

He’s been friendly with her all day---despite whatever had happened yesterday evening---and yet Y/N still felt as though their relationship had shifted somehow. Not in any noticeable way; an observer wouldn’t be able to tell any difference from today’s paint-making-session to last week’s, or even _last_ month’s. Loki is still just as kind. Just as generous. Attentive. Funny. Every giggle he can pull from Y/N’s lungs makes him grin; he revels in it, beaming just because he managed to tug one little peel of laughter from Y/N's chest. He’s still as pleasant and utterly likeable as before. 

The shift is more a _feeling_ nibbling at Y/N’s brain, an inkling that something has changed. Like how you know the ground is constantly moving about beneath your feet, or that the planet isn't in the same position in space it had been a minute ago. The exact nature of the change is hard to pinpoint. It’s almost as though a divide has been neatly slotted between Y/N and the prince; a slim sheet of glass; like she’s looking at him through a window. He’s more reserved than before, not just with his painting but with everything. He seems to have bundled up any emotions, feelings, and scraps of information about his personal life that he’d dropped and is now clutching them all close to his chest. 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” Y/N teased. Well, half-teased. Her tone is light with humour but her heart is ready to sink like a stone.

Loki dipped his head to the paint he’s stirring. “Actually, I find your company incredibly desirable.” 

...

Y/N permitted Loki to assist her with the cleaning of his rooms on the condition that he doesn’t tell Alfdis (“Or _anyone_ , for that matter.” 

“Who would I tell?”), and that he doesn’t refer to it as ‘assisting’. Or ‘helping’.

“In fact,” Y/N stated as they located her mop and bucket---still in the same place it has been for about a day now. “Don’t call it anything. You’re not _doing_ anything, you’re just...following me around and occasionally wiping surfaces. Because you w _ant_ to. Okay?”

Loki smirked down at her, and it made Y/N’s cheeks go pink. This made him smirk more. What is he finding so entertaining? Her (a little maid) bossing him (a six-foot-two prince) around? Her obvious distaste for being assisted? Or her new take-charge attitude; fists squarely planted on her hips as she spells out exactly how this whole ‘helping’ thing is going to work, expression firmed up with sternness and purpose?

Whatever it is, that little curl of lip at one side of his handsome mouth is enough to make Y/N’s---or any woman’s--- stomach fill with rapidly-beating butterfly wings.

“If you want to stop at any time, please do. In fact, you should just stop right now, you go sit somewhere and I’ll---”

This went on for some time. Loki regarded her silently, that hint of amusement tweaking at his mouth and arching his eyebrows throughout. When Y/N had eventually finished lecturing him about the fact that he is _not_ helping her, he gave a light shrug, said ‘okay’, and immediately started to help her. 

“What are you doing!?” Y/N asked hurriedly, making a little yelping noise and quickly following as Loki started walking into the other room. He’d plucked up the bucket of dirty water and was carrying it with ease in the direction of the washroom. 

“Helping you,” Loki replied simply. 

Y/N couldn’t see his face but she knew it would have a grin etched into it---all smug and pleased with himself. She all but scampered after him as he---as predicted---took the bucket to the washroom and poured the contents down the sink. Y/N winced as the dirty water cascaded into the basin; the muddy, dust-coloured liquid splashing with hard contrast against the multicoloured tiles. She would never even _consider_ using the prince’s personal washroom to empty or fill a bucket, or even rinse a cloth. It’s just so obviously something you shouldn’t do that it’s not even a rule. It’s common sense, an instinct.

“Stop making squeaking noises,” Loki chided nonchalantly, turning the tap so that new, crystal clear, water started to pour into the pail. He plucked a soap tablet from a nearby basket and dropped it in as well with a satisfying plop. 

_‘So that’s what they are’,_ Y/N realised, her mood switching from anguish to curiosity as the tablet began producing prickly little streams of fizzy bubbles. She’d eyed that tidy heap of white capsules every time she’d been in here to scrub the floors or wide down the walls (even though they never seem to get dirty). Soaps in the servant’s quarters are all simple, chunky bars of sour-smelling detergent that look like giant blackcurrant-flavoured throat lozenges. Because of this, Y/N had originally been under the impression these white pellets were some kind of sweet---perhaps a breath mint. She had wondered why anyone would want mints whilst on the loo, and just assumed it was one of the many parts of royal life she will never understand. Mentally, she praised herself on having self-control ---on more than one occasion she had nearly swiped one of the ‘mints’ and popped it in her mouth. Thank Odin’s beard she hadn’t.

The bucket was taking a while to fill, so the prince reached out a hand and turned the hot tap on as well. It had taken all of Y/N’s will-power not to grab his skinny wrist and berate him for wasting precious hot water on something as lowly as _cleaning_. She made another whimpering noise.

“You’re doing it again,” Loki pointed out, referring to the high-pitched little sounds of distress that escaped Y/N’s lips every time the bucket scraped against the intricately-designed tiles. The pail’s cracked wooden base is probably decorating them with smears of grime, dirt, and gritty scratches as they speak.

“I can’t help it!” Y/N sort of whined. One single tile probably costs more than Y/N’s weekly salary. “I always fill the bucket down the _hall---_ ”

Loki turned to her at this, raising one eyebrow as if she’d said something quite mad. “Why?”

Y/N mirrored the look exactly. From where she’s standing _he’s_ the mad one. “There's a designated sink for the housekeepers. We can’t use a _prince’s_ _washroom_ as a _cleaning_ _station---_ ”

“It may have escaped your notice, but I _am_ that prince. And I say: why not? It’s right here.” His furrowed brow deepened with yet more bemusement as he asked: “You’re telling me you walk all the way to the other side of the building with a full bucket of water there and back, _even though_ there’s a perfectly good sink right here?” 

“Yes.”

He inclined his wide shoulders simply. “You’re an idiot.” 

The bucket had filled by now, and rising high with fluffy white foam from the soap tablet. Loki lifted it from the basin and started walking back to the room they’d been in. He'd obviously memorised Y/N's routine; which rooms she tackles first, the order that follows, and which one she has gotten up to. Y/N would have commended his attentiveness but her jaw was still hanging open. 

When she’d composed herself, she strode after his bare heels again, her hands back on her hips. 

_“You’re_ the idiot. What next? You’re going to use your own clothes to mop the floors? Polish the windows with your golden-silk duvet?” 

Loki turned to her at this, a single, swift rotation of his whole body. He’s walking backwards just so he can grin down at her with a smile so cheeky it made her want to slap it off his face (or kiss it off. Whichever). “Would that annoy you?”

“Yes, it would annoy me!”

The prince’s pale eyes---now twinkling in a way that made Y/N’s insides flop about like a fish out of water---dropped to the frothing bucket in his right hand, then back to his housemaid's challenging glower. “...What if I tipped all this water straight onto the floor?” 

Y/N’s eyes widened. 

This was obviously the effect Loki had been hoping for because he’s grinning like a cat that learnt to use a tin opener. It made her nervous.

“What? You can’t do that---” 

“Why not? It’s my room, I do what I want.” He’d placed the bucket on the floor, now. Just doing that was enough to make Y/N wince. She usually keeps it atop a rag or towel, to make sure no little bits of gravelly dust etch grooves into the floor. 

She swallowed. “But---it’ll go everywhere.”

“That is rather the point.”

“I’ll have to clean it up.”

His barefoot walked on its toes to the base of the bucket. “No, I will.”

Y/N met his gaze, _her_ eyes hardened with challenge, _his_ sparkling with mischief. A little trail of foam had seeped over the brim of the bucket and trickled down the side. Loki’s toe dragged through it as he edged his foot higher, inch by inch, his smirk growing with every centimetre. The foam is as pale as his skin. 

Then, suddenly he gave it a swift little kick. His lips had parted with a grin, showing the white line of his teeth as Y/N made a little shrinking noise. 

With horror, she watched the water flow smoothly from its container and spread out over the spotless floor. Little lumps of soapsuds drifted by her feet, saturation slowly seeping into her thin little work slippers and dampening her toes. 

“Why would you do that?!” 

This got her a nonchalant shrug. “To annoy you, mostly.” He’d said it cooly; a lazy drawl of temerity, but his lip is still twitching into a teasing smile. He enjoys taunting her. He wants her to react.

Y/N’s mouth pressed itself into a firm line and she looked about her. Thank the heavens all of the furniture in this room is propped up on legs. Elegantly carved, expensive legs. At least gold can’t rust; can it? But the wooden, mould-prone carpentry, the expensive rugs---she made a little growling sound. Then, without thinking, she stooped down and swiped a handful of foam from an island of bubbles lazily drifting past her right foot, and hurled it at the prince. 

It wasn’t a very good throw. Well, it _was_ , technically; it had height and range, she’d had a good stance, perfect follow through. It was her aim that had been a little bit off. She’d wanted the soap suds to land squarely in the centre of Loki’s stupid smug face. It hadn’t. Instead, it hit just above the left side of his temple, some of it streaking all the way along the top of his head as if following the white line of his parting. 

Even though Y/N had missed her mark, she achieved her desired result. The wicked smirk had vanished from Loki’s mouth and been replaced with a shocked ‘O’ shape, his eyebrows now raised with surprise rather than roguish challenge. It would have been comical, had the realisation of what she’d done not just started to set into Y/N’s consciousness. 

She couldn’t even part her lips to utter a meek, weak little apology because her entire body seemed to have entered a semi-petrified state. 

Loki didn’t move either. Just stood there, his face all full of circles; circular mouth, circular eyes, his eyebrows so arched up his forehead that if you placed them end to end they’d make a circle too. 

The mound of froth on his head dripped down his hair and fell onto his shoulder, the gauzy material of his shirt blossoming dark as the moisture infiltrated the airy fabric. 

He did move, then. His jaw closed, his eyes narrowing, brow pulling itself low and serious like a blind over a stormy view. He’s all lines now. Harsh angles, dark like someone had drawn his glower on with a thick stick of charcoal. 

It was at this moment that Y/N realised she might be killed.

The prince took a step forward, and then another one. Y/N wanted to back away but couldn’t---because her joints were still gummed up with fear, and because she knew she deserved whatever’s coming. She’d take it because she’d brought it on herself. 

Despite this, despite her resolve to meet her fate head-on, Y/N couldn’t help wincing as the prince stopped in front of her. He’s so close she can see her own reflection in the pearly buttons of his shirt. Well, she would have been able to, if she didn’t currently have her eyes squeezed tight shut as she braced herself.

Then she felt something on her jaw. Something cold and soft. 

She dared to peek out from under her eyelids.

Loki’s smirk was back. He’d bent down so he was eye level with Y/N, his pale irises following his large, gentle hand as it stroked from one side of her jawbone to the other. He’d scooped the foam from his head, and was currently in the process of smearing it across Y/N’s chin. 

He’s giving her a beard of bubbles. 

Y/N blinked, her shoulders going slack. She squinted at him but for a whole different reason now, watching his eyes slide over her as he concentrated on his work. Every now and again the pads of his cool fingers brushed against her skin and the nerves beneath would fire all at once, little bursts of sensation mixed with the smooth dragging motion of moist little soap suds.

When Loki was satisfied with his work, he straightened, rising back to his full height and smirked down at Y/N’s bemused expression. He’s waiting for her to make the next move. He's _daring_ her to make the next move.

It was several seconds before she _could_ move. She can still hear the rush of her blood pumping past the drums of her ears, the rapid adrenaline-fuelled thud of her pulse in her chest as her heart throws itself about her rib cage. 

The end of her bubble-beard elongated, gravity tugging its scraggly entrails until it broke in half. The severed piece landed on Y/N’s slipper with a sodden splat and she felt the wetness trickle into the cloth. Her lips curled and she narrowed her eyes. Then she reached out and, using the very ends of her fingers, snatched the plump little mound of bubbles resting on Loki’s broad shoulder. 

He remained perfectly still as Y/N pulled her hand down over the sharp point of his chin, gifting him with a translucent bubble-goatee. There's a slight indent in one of his clean-shaven cheeks; he seemed to be biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

Y/N waited for his response. She wondered if he’d take back the beard he’d given her---for ammo to launch his counterattack---but he didn't. Instead, he began a leisurely walk, both hands behind his back. Y/N turned to watch him go. 

“Surrendering so soon?” she mocked, her voice wobbling slightly; left-over nerves resulting from her near brush with the afterlife. And because she knew, somehow, that he wasn’t surrendering. He’s probably doing the exact opposite. 

The prince’s feet actually made a sound, for once, as he crossed the room; wet slaps as he sloshed through the large puddle of lukewarm water now taking up most of the floor. He didn't reply, just kept going and then disappeared left, into the washroom.

When he emerged he did so with a handful of something, and a devilish expression. “Quite the contrary.”

Y/N knew what he’s holding immediately. And what he planned to do with them.

“This means war.” And with that, he tossed the soap tablets into the air like chubby nubs of confetti. 

Their eyes followed the white pellets as they rose, ran out of momentum, then began to plummet to the floor, bouncing on the glassy ground with tinkling splashes like hailstones. Immediately they began to fizz, bubbles oozing from the ground like strange cloud-like fungi. 

Before Y/N had time to react, the prince had stooped down to grab the at the nearest bubble-plume and strode over to her so he could dump it over the top of her head. 

She rubbed the suds from her eyes and huffed the bubbles from her nostrils, which got a cackle from Loki somewhere on the other side of the room. He’d positioned himself opposite Y/N, a long bronze-coloured sofa acting as a barricade between them. 

Y/N's calculating stare dipped to the wall separating them, then to her target, his expression energized and full of taunting provocation. He's daring her again. Daring her to risk damaging the priceless piece of furniture between them---he thinks she won't---he thinks he's safe.

Before Loki had a chance to look surprised, Y/N grabbed at the bubbles near her feet and flung them at the prince with a little better aim this time (probably because she knew accidentally hitting the sofa would mean the end of her career and possibly life). 

It hit the lower half of Loki’s face and he blew a stream of foam from his mouth that was stretched wide in a grin. Before he could grab some froth to hurl back at Y/N she had already started running away, her slippers making a satisfying slapping sound as she rounded a table and ducked behind it with a little shriek; of laughter this time. 

...

Their war was concluded neatly with a peace agreement when they were both soaked and panting and out of breath, leaning against things that were also slightly soaked and exhausted from being used as shields for the past however long. They were soaked because, at one stage, Loki had fetched more water and tablets and from the washroom and rejuvenated the growing mass suds with the careless and recklessness of a child. 

Y/N had scolded his actions in an equally mature way; by stretching up to tug the collar of his shirt open so she could drop a half-dissolved soap tabled down the back of his neck. 

To this, Loki had made a hilarious screeching noise as the little bomb fizzed against the base of his spine, then grappled at the hem of his shirt to untuck it before the wedge of detergent could enter the band of his trousers. 

The peace agreement was made not because of exhaustion, but because the supply of tablets and islands of bubbles had dried up (figuratively and literally). 

Nothing else was dry; both Y/N and Loki's clothes were wetly hanging off their frames, which---due to his love of thin, gauzy fabrics---made it a little difficult to look over at the prince without turning the colour of a raspberry. His hair shouldn't look that good either; dripping and hanging limply around his shoulders. And yet it does. All of him does, his chest rising and falling with exertion, eyes all glowy from the thrill of a chase. He's almost panting, and for some reason, Y/N can't stop staring at his mouth as those heavy breaths leave his parted lips. They were spread in a sloppy smile as he called for a draw and held out a large hand for Y/N to shake. 

Tentatively, Y/N took it, their slick palms meeting with a damp smacking of water; Y/N's warm with rushing blood, and Loki's cool with---well, he's just always cool, it seems. 

Shaking hands is something---as a working-class female---Y/N has rarely done. It made her heart swell with a pleasing sense of solidarity; she felt, for once, like some kind of equal---not to Loki as a prince, but as a friend---and it was very pleasant. There was another feeling to elicited by Loki's touch; tingles radiating from his surprisingly masculine grip and inched their way up Y/N's arm. Although that may have been because of the soap. 

...

Loki was true to his word; after their handshake, he took the mop propped against the wall and started pushing it about the floor, wringing the foamy water into the bucket. 

He _is_ very competent at cleaning, for a prince; rubbing away vague footprints and scuff marks. But it's still _wrong._

Y/N tried to take the mop from him, to take over, do her job, but he simply stepped in front of her, blocking her as though it was a game where she’s not allowed to touch a ball. He was smiling the whole time, finding her determined attempts amusing; reaching hands grasping at thin air, her jaw knitted tight shut so she didn't mutter expletives. Sometimes she’d grasp _Loki_ by accident, or bump into the solid strength of his torso. Y/N would blush and he’d laugh at her. She didn’t give up easily, though. She kept moving from trying to reach around one of the prince’s sides to the other, hoping he wouldn’t be quick enough so she could swipe the handle. 

He was always quick enough, of course. 

When, eventually, Y/N relented and let Loki get on with cleaning up his mess, she set about her own tasks---which mainly involved polishing and dusting the multitudinous array of trinkets littering every flat surface of the room. 

At first, she did her usual lifting-things-and-placing-them-back-exactly-as-they-had-been routine, measuring the distance between objects and their neighbours. Loki noticed and rose an eyebrow, finding it amusing, to begin with. However, when he caught Y/N trying to balance a stack of books in her arms whilst wiping under the footstool they'd been sitting on, he said:

“That really isn’t necessary. I told you before, any rumours about me being particular about my belongings are apocryphal. Just leave the books on the floor, it's fine.” 

Y/N hesitated, the muscles in her arms seizing up with the weight of the heavy volumes. She'd picked them all up at once because she wanted to keep the stack exactly as Loki had left it on the footstool; a few corners jaggedly poking out, the entire thing wobbling off a little to the left like an unsteady building. “Are you sure?” She still sounded tentative, her friendly demeanour gone and replaced with the shy, self-conscious persona she’d worn when she’d first started working for the prince. She’s acting like his maid again. 

Firmer this time: “Yes, I’m sure. Just put stuff wherever.” He waved a hand at the ground by Y/N's feet and she regarded it as if expecting it to come alive and tear the books she held to shreds. 

However, Y/N knew she wouldn't be able to hold them much longer. She'd be better to set them down rather than drop them as her muscles turned to wet pasta with the strain. 

A kind smile played across Loki's lips as he watched her give in and heed his advice. She’d seem reluctant to do so, pausing first as though having to mentally will her hand to move, but once the books touched the floor and nothing bad happened, her shoulders slackened. 

“You know,” Loki added, resuming his mopping of the floor. “You don’t even need to be doing that at all.” He gestured at the rag in Y/N's hand that she was now pushing about under the footstool. "Everything is clean enough. Sit down, relax, seeing as you insist on staying.” 

Y/N blinked blankly at him.

The prince took this as confusion as to where she should sit, and inclined his head to a nearby loveseat. 

This was met with a horror-stricken expression. “I can’t sit there! And I keep telling _you_ , this is my job.” 

“I’d rather you take a break. I’m a prince, remember? You should do as I say.” He’d never pulled that card on her, and even now he’s doing it with that quintessential light, teasing smirk he wears just so she knows he's joking. Mostly. 

Y/N felt the back of her neck heating for some reason, a faint little twitching tugging at the corners of her lips. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but are you _ordering_ me to sit down?”

Loki smoothed his grin expertly, straightening his spine and tugging on a domineering stance as if it was merely a comfortable old cloak. It suited him; he looks like a king, Y/N couldn’t help thinking; the mop held firmly in one hand like a strange wooden staff, a few remaining bubbles dotted over his damp clothes like jewels woven into the fabric. Not a king of Asgard, though. Somewhere colder, where skin is pale as snow rather than browned by the sun. Somewhere where intelligence and strategy rule over brawn; where warriors are lean and slender rather than bulky and grizzled from war. 

Deepening his silken voice to a darker, velvet tone, the prince looked down his pointed nose an Y/N as though addressing his subjects. That smile is still there, a little ghost of joshing below his bestriding mask. “Yes, I command you to sit on this settee---” he thrust the mop-head at it, “---and relax.” His eyes---glinting with the joy of play---swept over Y/N’s slightly moist attire. 

She still had foam atop her head. 

He added: “And to dry yourself with one of the towels from the washroom.” 

Y/N’s mouth opened to protest---something predictable about a maid using a prince’s towels---but noted Loki’s stern look and trailed off to heed his wishes, giving him a mock-grumpy scowl as she passed. 

He just flashed her a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What kinda age group are most of the readers of this? Want me to bump it up to a Mature and be a bit descriptive when we (eventually lol) get to some smut? Or keep it nondescript?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked you guys if you wanted this story to have smut, and you all screamed "yes please" at me in capitals for two days, so I've bumped this story up to Mature. Get ready for some sexy times….
> 
> several chapters in the future eheheheh sorry :-) The wait will be worth it, I promise.
> 
> If you want Loki smut NOW, check out my completed story "Loki X Reader Secret Almost Lovers"

Y/N had always admired Loki’s washroom. She’s been in it many times before, but only to clean. She’d never dared to  _ use _ it; that too is something she makes a trip to the end of the hall for. 

The washroom is not like the rest of the palace; cased in shells of gold, or chipped from slabs or marble. It doesn’t seem to have any harsh angles either, it’s all subtle curves, sloping edges. The sink is embedded in the countertop, the floor slants slightly so water can run into a neat little drain, and the bath is pressed into the ground like a giant had made the concave hole with the pad of his thumb.  Everything feels lighter, more bright and airy, despite the fact that it’s one of the few rooms in Loki’s chambers that doesn’t boast a floor-to-ceiling window. In fact, there are no windows at all due to the fact that the room is nestled snugly between the hallway and the wide span of the prince’s quarters.  Maybe magic gives the washroom its warm glow? Or it could be due to the colours, not green or gold like most of Loki’s possessions, but blue. Every inch of this room is covered in tiny square tiles studded into pure white plaster, some dark navy like the bottom of an ocean and others as bright as the crest of a wave on a summer’s day. 

There seems to be a stark difference between how washing is viewed by the classes, Y/N had quickly observed. 

The servant's chambers have a room where the staff may bathe, but, like most things, its very existence is due to necessity rather than pleasure. A row of tubs lines one wall, and a row of showers decorates the other, all separated by a thin wooden panel---for privacy. The floor is sliced with channels so water can run off into the row of rusty drains riving the dank little room in two. Water is only heated in colder months, and even then not enough to create steam. The staff of the palace aim to spend as little time in the washroom as possible; hop in, do what you need to do, then get out of there before your feet catch some kind of fungal infection from the manky tiles. 

For royalty, though, bathing seems to be... a pass time. Something that you enjoy, not just something you  _ have _ to do. Everything about the prince’s washroom appears to have been designed with aesthetics and comfort in mind; the subtle colours, the non-threatening curves---even the walls bow inwards rather than meet at jarring ninety degrees. Everything looks to be made to promote relaxation---in fact, some of the item's  _ sole _ _ purpose _ seems to be just that. 

Like the fountain cascading silently down one wall; a thin, wide sheet of water that Y/N had---at first---assumed to be a curved piece of glass. She couldn't figure its purpose so reached the conclusion that it must be a decoration of some kind, the slight trickling noise it makes adding to the room's tranquil atmosphere. 

Or the smooth, convex bumps protruding from one side of the bath; chairs, so you can lounge in the water, lean your head against the lip and doze.

And the candles, the flasks of multi-coloured potions and liquids dotted about all over the flat surfaces that smell like a meadow in summer---

Y/N often finds herself wondering why or how Loki ever leaves the serene confines of this pretty little space.  If Y/N had the choice, she wouldn’t leave. She’d fill the swimming-pool like tub (not even a tub, it's more of a deep, wide pit), add a few soap tablets, and submerge herself in the foamy water until the pads of her fingers go as wrinkly as Alfdis’. She’d rub the flower-scented potions into her hair and onto her body until the smell of sweet peonies, musky roses, and succulent blossoms follow her wherever she goes. Even then she’d probably stay a bit longer. There’s easily enough room for her to swim a minuscule lap of the bath. She’d cross the entire length in about three strokes, but that’s a vast improvement from the literal tubs she’s used to in the servant’s quarters where she can’t even stretch out her legs. 

At first, Y/N didn’t know Loki’s washroom had a shower. There’s no clear nozzle or tap protruding from the wall, so she just assumed showers are something only for the lower classes. But then several small holes poked into the ceiling had caught her eyes, and she realised the shower is somehow embedded _into_ the tiles above her head. Water must drip down from the roof as though it’s raining, which must be absolutely delightful. She kept meaning to ask Loki where the tap is to make the water start, out of pure curiosity.

Y/N’s eyes scoured the little room again for the nozzle or a button or a lever as she patted her clothes dry (with what had to be the softest reel of material she’d ever felt). She---as usual---failed to find it, and turned her attention back to the task at hand. 

When dry, her uniform---a plain, starchy dress and apron---is the colour of a puddle on a gravel path. Now, however, it’s thoroughly dripping in some places, almost as if it’s crying. It now bore more of a resemblance to a rain cloud itself, all grey and sombre, the little droplets oozing from the hem and beading on the blue tiles below Y/N’s feet.

It’ll take a while to completely rid the thick, coarse material of moisture, so Y/N concentrated on her hair, which she could actually do something about.  Self-consciously checking the door to make sure the prince couldn’t see her, Y/N reached up and unfastened the tight little bun atop her head. Her hair fell down about her shoulders stiffly. Even after a thorough combing with Y/N's fingers, it refused to forget the shape of the bun it had been in for well over six hours and remained matted in light curls hanging limply from her head. 

Before towelling it dry, Y/N wrung her hair out over the sink, watching the fat little drips slide down the sides and disappear into the plughole. Even that is spotless and very amusing: it’s one of those ones where you push it down with your thumb and it lodges itself in place, then you press it again and it pops up to allow the water to drain away. Y/N had never encountered one like that before and had spent the first few minutes of her first round of cleaning this room just pushing it up and down, enjoying the satisfying little pop and the persistent push against her hand of the spring mechanism. 

After hanging the towel back on its wrack, Y/N wondered about leaving her hair down whilst she’s in Loki’s chambers---to give it a better chance at drying. She doubted Loki would mind; after all, he’d let her swamp him in foam only minutes earlier (and, whilst cackling like a crazy person, drop a fizzing soap tablet down his shirt in the hope it would end up filling his trousers with bubbles). 

However, something held her back. 

She’s not sure what. It felt vaguely like timorous reluctance; a desire not to be seen in such a state. If Loki poked his head around the door right now Y/N would probably yelp as if he's caught her naked, then quickly try to smother her hair under her hands, out of sight.

A maid appearing scruffy before her employer is a more than valid justification for Y/N's shyness, however, such an excuse falls apart when your employer is Loki. Y/N could probably come to work in her nightclothes and he wouldn't even notice. Well, he'd _notice_ , but he wouldn't _care_ , let alone chastise her for lack of professionalism. He’d probably encourage her to---as he puts it---r _elax,_ and dress in and however she feels most comfortable. To ‘let her hair down’---literally. 

So professionalism can’t be what made Y/N's arms reach up to tie the damp strands safely away. 

Maybe  _ that’s _ why---the damp little strands---even if Y/N didn’t know it at the time. She doesn’t want the first time Loki sees her with her hair loose to be whilst it's limp and pressed into rats' tails.

…

When Y/N left the washroom---mostly dry, and her hair now back in its usual conservative bun---she found Loki in the lounge, prodding the fireplace with a long stick. He raised his head and smiled at her as she came over to him, regarding the flames with interest.

“I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen any of these fires lit before,” she observed as she stood by the hearth sort of awkwardly. The prince is perched on the lip of one of the nearby sofas---pulled up against the fireplace---and Y/N didn’t know if she was permitted to sit next to him. 

He answered her unspoken question by giving it a little pat. “I’m not overly fond of heat,” he explained with a furrowed brow, as if the reason for this had always bemused him. 

“Really?” Y/N made a show of raising her eyebrows in mock surprise, a look utterly saturated with sarcasm. The prince’s distaste for high temperatures is not news to her; after so many hours spent in his presence, she’d noticed it on more than one occasion. Even now he’d moved the settee so that the end he’s sat on isn’t as close to the fire as Y/N’s end. And the poker he’s using to stimulate the crackling pile of logs has to be at least double the length of an ordinary one. 

Loki gave Y/N a sideways smile at her insolence but didn’t comment. Turning back to the feeble flames: “I only light them to make food if I can’t be bothered to go downstairs. And even then I wait until the meal is cool before eating it.”

She faced him curiously, unable to help the interested edge to her tone as she asked: “You really hate warmth that much?” 

The prince looked thoughtful, the flames bright in his pale eyes as he watched them lick the logs they sat on, gumming at the charred edges. “Yes. When I was a child Mother would try to bathe me and I’d cry if she used even lukewarm water.”

Y/N didn’t know what to do with this information. She’d know he seems to be immune to cold temperatures but she didn’t know he was actually  _ averse _ to hotter ones. She thought he was just more  _ inclined _ to have the window open no matter the weather, that he  _ preferred _ to dress down rather than pile on layers. The mental image of Loki’s face as a babe screwing up with tears when Frigga tried to lower him into a bath made Y/N’s heart twist in on itself painfully. 

“Does it hurt you?” She asked softly. 

Loki said nothing, and Y/N worried she’d pressed him too hard, been too nosy, but she needn't have. He was just trying to formulate a reply. 

“Yes, sometimes. What’s simply hot to you would probably be boiling for me. I’m not sure why. Mother said I’m sensitive, but I’ve never met anyone else who experiences it. Although,” he chuckled but it sounded more brittle than amused. “Being a prince, I never really got to meet many people. Just visitors to the palace, friends of Mother and Father. And staff, obviously.” He added. “But we weren’t supposed to talk to them, and when I did they were too afraid of me to be honest or comfortable.” The corners of his narrow lips tugged into a fond smile. “Apart from Alfdis, of course.” 

Y/N mulled this over as she watched the prince jab at the fire. She contemplated how it must have been terribly lonely growing up so isolated, especially as Loki is a quiet individual by nature. She thought about his odd sensitivity to raised temperatures and felt her heart swell with tenderness that he’d lit a fire anyway, just so Y/N could get herself dry. How must it feel to live for hundreds of years without ever making a casual acquaintance, without sunning your face on the first day of spring? 

Although, Y/N noted, Loki has made his own ways of getting along without such things. He paints people because he can’t interact with them, capturing and saving snippets of their joy and laughter in picture form like a vintner bottling wine. And he takes strolls in the frigid early morning dawn, leaving before the sun has had time to toast the air and bake the gravel pathways. He’s probably just as in love with the cold as most Asgardians are with the warmth.

After a little while, Loki squinted at the fire critically, as if assessing it, then stood and disappeared into another room. Y/N remained, holding out the palms of her hands so the warmth could tickle her skin. When Loki returned, he held a metal tripod in one hand, and a kettle of water in the other.

“Tea?” he asked, holding up the kettle, and Y/N beamed, the dryness of her mouth suddenly making itself apparent. Loki approached the fireplace, but Y/N had already pushed herself to her feet. She didn’t want to find out what would happen if the prince got too close to the flames. She knew he’d try to do it for her; he’d lean right over that bright mass of heat to set the kettle on its little stilts, burn himself just so Y/N could have some blasted tea. 

She took the tripod and kettle from him. “I’ll do it.” 

For once, Loki let her, handing the responsibility over with a grateful smile. He'd probably picked up on her tone, too, more assertive than she'd ever been in his presence, and knew there's no use trying to argue. “Thank you.”

“How do you cook meals if you can't go near the fireplace?” Y/N asked as she arranged the tripod over the flames, careful to keep her dress away from their nibbling maws. 

“I use long sticks with hooks on them,” Loki answered, and Y/N couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. 

When the kettle was settled, its rounded underside already glowing with heat, Y/N took her place on the sofa. It’s small, just right for two people, and insanely comfortable. She had to try hard not to sink back into its comforting embrace and take a quick nap. Or to lean into the dip in the cushions caused by Loki’s weight, let her head come to rest on the muscled knot of his shoulder. 

That thought made something occur to her.

“When I touch you,” she began, noticing Loki’s eyes light with attention all of a sudden, “---do I hurt you?”

He turned to her, his brow furrowed. The fire reflected softly off the paleness of his face, his cheekbones casting fluttering shadows over his jaw. “Hurt me? How could you hurt me?”

“Because I’m warm. You’re always cool and I’m always warm so I wondered if when I touch you---”

"You don’t hurt me,” Loki shook his head, waving her off with a fond smile. 

Y/N’s shoulders slackened. “Good. But I can stop, if you want, if it’s---”

“No, don’t.” He seemed to have gone pink, below the shadows and yellow of the fire. Averting his gaze back to the squat little kettle, he added: “Don’t stop. I like it.”

…

Y/N jumped when the kettle let out a shrill whistle; a long scream in protest at its contents bubbling away inside of it. After Loki’s shy confession---that he enjoys her rare, casual touches---Y/N had suddenly felt very hot, and not because of the fire. 

While she removed the kettle from the heat and poured the water into two cups, Y/N’s mind kept replaying Loki’s tentative little string of words over in her mind. It held them, let them slip through its fingers as though it was a necklace, feeling the bump of each syllable pass between finger and thumb like beads. He---a prince---doesn’t mind Y/N---his  _ maid--- _ touching him? He  _ likes--- _

When the tea had brewed, Y/N took a sip and hummed as the taste filled her mouth and seeped between her teeth. It was rich and full of flavour, thick and creamy, tangy and bittersweet. Not like the tea Y/N is used to; ground up, bland-tasting leaves floating in hot water.  Her eyes had slipped closed, steam leaking from the surface of the drink brushing against the lids, and she opened them to find Loki watching her. He seems to do that a lot, so much so that Y/N is almost used to it. Well, as accustomed as you can be to having an incredibly attractive prince’s eyes trained on you with almost scientific interest. He hasn’t touched his tea yet, just left it---probably to cool---on the table. 

Y/N wanted to ask him about the alliance, even though it’s barely been twenty-four hours since Loki was informed of his fate. It takes that long for a message to  _ reach _ the Vanir, let alone for the Allfather and Her Majesty Frigga to formulate some kind of alternative act of peace that will satisfy both parties. Plus, they’d probably have to have some kind of meeting---between the government of this kingdom, then with the government of the Vanir---Y/N supposed, before the wedding could actually be called off. It would be weeks before any changes to the arrangements could be made---and that is if an attempt at a workaround is being formulated at all. 

Despite this, Y/N still wanted to ask, or at least to mention it. She’d found herself almost opening her mouth to do so at various points in the day;  _ ‘By the way, do you still have to marry the Vanir princess?’  _ even though she knew the answer would most certainly be a sombre  _ ‘yes’.  _ It feels wrong  _ not _ to mention it; it feels like they’d stuffed something dangerous to the back of a cupboard, mutually agreed to never speak of it again, and are now silently hoping it doesn’t escape. 

Earlier, Y/N and Loki had run around his chambers laughing, but that sense of impending doom had still hung over them like a giant wave in the distance, one day to crash down upon their quiet little world and crush it. Y/N felt as though someone should point it out, but then, just as the words formulated on her tongue, she’d realise why bother?  _ Talking _ about a tsunami won’t  _ stop _ the tsunami. 

Plus, if Loki had news---good or bad---he would have already shared it with her by now. It would be almost cruel to bring his mood back down to where it had been yesterday, for no other reason than addressing the elephant in the room. He must be grateful for the distraction. 

But it had been difficult to stamp down those hot bubbles of frustration, to pull a tight mask over grimaces of pain and despair. For the first time in years, Loki seems genuinely content, Y/N has been genuinely happy, everything has been going so  _ well _ and it’s not  _ fair _ . Y/N wants to complain and shout and cry over it but what would be the use? 

When Loki moves to the Vanir kingdom, what will become of Y/N? Would she have to go back to mopping bird droppings from the palace steps before sunup? To eating nothing but Ylva's salty servings of stew and vegetables so boiled they're nothing but a little heap of grey mush? No more pastries, pigments, colours, cakes, trips to the market? No more Frode and Arne and sweet sweet Aasta? Just back to hours upon hours of stooped-over mopping, cracked hands half-eaten by the cold?

Y/N tried to sweep those thoughts hastily under a rug as soon as they’d presented themselves. 

Yesterday, she and Loki had been sitting side by side in comfortable silence, making paint. It had crossed Y/N’s mind then; the ground suddenly falling away below the pillow she sat on, her whole body tumbling into the hole.  She couldn’t imagine---didn’t want to imagine---a future in which her days were not filled with those things. And filled with Loki. With colours, with the little pigment-freckled table before her, with the solid, soothing presence of the prince right beside her. She couldn’t imagine no longer spending her working days in these chambers, so still and serene, always draped in peaceful quietude, the comforting knowledge that no one is allowed into their little world draped around their shoulders like a reassuring old shawl. 

How quickly the heart latches onto pleasant things, and how reluctant it is to let them go.

Y/N felt a light prickling sensation in the corners of her eyes and blinked, taking another sip of her tea. It slipped over her tongue and down her throat like nectar, warming her from the inside out. She doesn’t want to talk about the alliance anymore. Even thoughts of it---of their bleak and uncertain futures---look bitter before her mind’s eye. 

The prince must feel the same way. His shoulders sag when he thinks Y/N isn’t looking, as soon as his thoughts are given enough time to wander. 

So Y/N decided to talk about something she thought he would like, something that’s as far away from his life and duties as a prince he could possibly get:

“What pigments do you want me to get tomorrow?” 

Loki had picked up his tea now, and was holding the little cup between the pads of his finger and thumb, blowing cold breaths onto its surface. Steam---moisture condensed by his breath---billowed from the drink as if the heat was trying to escape his onslaught of cool. “I don’t think I'll need any,” he said, to the floor rather than Y/N’s face. “With the pigments you bought today, it’ll be finished.”

Y/N almost giggled; they hadn’t actually gotten around to turning those pigments into paint; they’d spent the day trying to drown the other in froth from soap tablets, flooding the prince’s chambers, and spying on people through a telescope. A slight inkling of guilt was the only thing that stopped this from being amusing. Y/N was halfway through contemplating asking Alfdis not to pay her today's wages---seeing as she’d gotten no work done---when something occurred to her.

The painting is finished? And yet they’d been into almost every room of Loki’s quarters and Y/N hadn’t seen it anywhere. Yes she had kept a lookout for it just in case Loki had simply decided to continue it out of his studio---for some reason, but to no avail. He must have actually bothered to  _ hide  _ it away---

Despite the prince never explicitly saying so, Y/N couldn’t help getting a sinking feeling that he’d hidden it either _because_ or  _ from _ her, or both. Who else would he hide it from? No one has a key but them. Y/N is the only visitor, besides Frigga on very rare occasions, but why would she go into the studio?

Y/N wanted to inquire about the painting anyway. She'd helped make it, after all, she'd watched it from birth. She knew she didn't have the right to ask if she could see it as his maid, but maybe she could as his friend?

And yet she didn't. The prince has been so open today, and the air is still thick with their earlier joy. Y/N doesn’t want to say anything that might cause Loki to retreat back into his shell, to push her away again like yesterday. 

So instead she asked:

“Will you paint something else?” She tried not to let a taught, hopeful edge creep into her voice. Those few magical months can’t be over now, they just can’t. Would Loki still ask her to come and clean his chambers? Surely not, seeing as he doesn’t seem to care whether they get cleaned either way; he even seems somewhat opposed to Y/N doing any kind of manual labour. So what will become of Y/N’s career? Of their relationship? 

Loki inclined the line of his shoulders. “I don't have anything I feel like painting." 

Y/N’s heart grew heavy and then, as if somehow knowing, Loki added: 

"Well, I did have one idea.” He watched the swirls of steam flow smoothly from his tea. 

Y/N's hopes began to rise.

“But I can't. Not anymore.”

Encouragingly: “Of course you can.” Y/N sat up a little straighter, relief flushing her veins so quickly she almost felt light-headed. Perhaps their pigment-making sessions don’t have to end yet after all. And maybe---after today went so swimmingly---he’ll start his new picture with Y/N in the room this time, like before; him dabbing at the canvas while she makes his colours. “You're an amazing artist, you can paint anything.”

Loki shook his head. “No, I meant the subject is off-limits.”

Y/N felt her brow furrow. “To a prince? What could possibly be off-limits to a prince?”

This made him bark an almost bitter, one syllabled laugh. “A surprisingly long list of things.”

Y/N waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t, she prompted: 

“Well, what was it?”

With an expression that matched his tone: “You.”


	16. Chapter 16

Loki’s eyes are trained on Y/N’s face as he waits for her reaction. 

It took Y/N a while to react at all, and when she  _ did, _ all she could manage was a weak little: 

“What?”

Loki’s adam’s apple bobbed up and then down the long column of his ivory throat, and he repeated, slowly and carefully: “I wanted to paint you.”

Y/N didn’t know what to make of this. He might be messing with her, teasing her with some strange, twisted prank---

but she doesn’t think he is. He doesn’t  _ look _ like he is. He’s tensed up under the gauzy material of his almost-dry shirt, every one of his lean, powerful muscles taught as a bowstring. 

“What’s stopping you?” Y/N asked cautiously. Her voice was reedy and tight, like she was testing a frozen lake to see if it’s solid enough to walk on. She was returning Loki’s stare intently, watching the lines and curves of his expression; raking it for any signs of joshing.

He shifted under her gaze and moistened his lips with his pointed tongue, his shoulders almost hunched as if they’re wings he wants to hide inside. His tone has an embarrassed, awkward edge as he mutters: “The painting wouldn’t be lude, but it wouldn’t be right, me staring for hours on end at you now that you’re Arne’s--”

“No, I’m not, we only went out once,” Y/N said quickly. Very quickly, so quickly both she and Loki blinked in surprise as if her sentences were a wild animal that had darted past them very suddenly. Y/N was more surprised; that statement---that hasty rejection of Arne’s affections--- had come from  _ her _ mouth and yet she had no recollection of thinking it. She’d blurted it out, thrown it up as though it were a feeling, an instinct, rather than a conscious thought, her body working of its own volition.

Loki was the first to recover and said, sounding oddly defeated---like someone who’d just surrendered in a war: "He'll obviously ask you out again in the future.

"If he does I’ll turn him down.” 

That’s the first time Y/N has admitted that to herself. Once again, her body appears to be acting beyond her control. It’s right though, her subconscious is right; despite her duty, she doesn’t want to go out with Arne again. She doesn’t want him to be her future but she hadn’t let herself think that, let alone declare it out loud. 

But now that she has...it felt good. Like she’d been sitting with her spine as rigid as a tree trunk for weeks, and has just now finally allowed herself to slouch. She’d been lying to herself---well, trying to  _ persuade _ herself---ever since the meteor shower and it was beginning to feel like a tight corset. The lie---the pressure to live the life she knows she should live---had wrapped about her chest and slowly made it more and more difficult to take in a proper breath of air.

“I didn't feel anything,” she continued. With every word that constricting sensation lessened, and one of deep relief blossomed like a rose. “I  _ don’t _ feel anything. Not for Arne. I don’t think I ever did." 

Y/N wanted Loki to know that, for some reason. 

He looked up. "You didn’t?"

"No.” At that moment Y/N felt like grinning, but if she had done she would have disgustedly wiped it off her face with the back of her hand as though it were an unsightly smudge of food. She shouldn’t be smiling; dear, sweet Arne. The idea of not being with him shouldn’t bring her pleasure.

But it did. 

“I went out with him because...never mind. But I didn't feel anything. Nothing happened.”

A ghost of a smile was pulling at the corner of Loki’s lip, but Y/N didn’t see it. She’d dipped her head to stare at her tea, swirling the remaining dregs about the bottom of her cup. Guilt was thumbing the pages of her conscience, rubbing them into scruffy dog ears. Poor Arne. And her parents. How could Y/N be so selfish? And what is she doing, boring a prince with the matters of her love life (or lack thereof)? 

But he doesn’t seem bored. Quite the opposite. He’d shifted right to the edge of the sofa cushion without Y/N noticing. “It didn’t?” He asked, running one hand over his hair, subconsciously smoothing it down

Y/N shook her head. “No.”

No one said anything for some time, both Y/N and the prince’s eyes hazing over with their own, separate clouds of thought. Y/N’s rivery was significantly shorter than Lokis. It consisted of one single sentence and then it was over. That sentence was:

_ ‘I need to stop stringing Arne along.’ _

She watched Loki for a bit. He’d gone almost completely still, his pale skin taking the light of the fire and throwing it back. He looks like a statue, Y/N contemplated. If he was one he’d be one of the only statues in the palace made of stone rather than gold. She wondered what he was thinking about, then Y/N’s brain finally digested his earlier words. 

"...You wanted to paint me?"

The prince lifted his head, returning to reality, his attention settling back on Y/N. It’s a powerful force, sometimes when he looks at her she feels as though he can see right into her head. He probably can. He probably meanders through her thoughts just for the fun of it; plucking up and inspecting daydreams and memories as if they’re trinkets on a shelf, set there for his own personal amusement.

Quietly: "I  _ still _ want to paint you. I'd love to. If you'd let me. And if you're sure I won't get a jealous apothecary apprentice breaking into the palace to strangle me in my sleep." A nervous chuckle emanated from Loki’s chest but Y/N made a guess it was from shyness more than at what he’d said. 

Although he does have a legitimate cause for concern; Asgardians are not exactly known for their calm and logical way of settling disputes. Famously territorial, most males would---and have---deal with adultery by lodging an axe into the head of whomever his wife had been cheating with. It probably wouldn’t matter to their virile, immortal red-blood if that person was a member of the royal family or not; they’d storm the palace, mow down the guards and get their revenge, even if it meant their inevitable demise.

Y/N returned his laugh nervously. "Arne wouldn't do that.” At least, she couldn’t  _ imagine _ him doing that. “And as I said, he’d have no reason to because we're not…you know---” 

Y/N couldn’t bring herself to say ‘lovers’, or even ‘sweethearts’. She didn’t know why. The mental image of her being with anyone in that way---well, almost anyone---felt incongruous and bitter in her mind. She didn’t want to pass that picture over to the prince, to stain his imagination also.

After several moments of just wrestling with various versions of ‘dating’, Y/N eventually electing to skip it altogether and simply say: “---we're just friends."

Loki sipped his tea. It made it difficult for Y/N to see his expression, and she felt he knew that and that’s exactly why he’s doing it. Or she’s just paranoid and crazy. Why does she care so much about his reaction to her status as a single woman anyway? And, more importantly---

"I don't understand though,” Y/N tried her best to bat away the note of interested curiosity that threatened to creep into her tone, but it was difficult. She couldn’t help the corner of her mouth tugging into a bashful smile either. “Why would you want to paint... _ me?  _ You could paint anyone in the kingdom---in the Nine Realms if you wanted to.”

Simply: “I don't want to paint anyone else in the Nine Realms, I want to paint you.” 

“But why?” Y/N’s puzzlement was mixed with an almost brittle laugh at the very notion. She gestured to her still-sodden uniform the colour of a gravestone, and her hair that looked like she’d been attacked by a thundercloud for the last three hours as she said: “You said you paint what you find beautiful."

Loki gave her a long look. 

Y/N went pink. "Thank you," She stuttered, gripping her cup in both hands so tightly she’s glad it’s made of metal. Then, tentatively:

"Will you want me to pose or something?"

  
  
  


...

  
  


It was decided that they'd begin the painting tomorrow. 

Loki wrote Y/N a list of pigments to pick up at the market that he’d need. With the promise of a new project, his handwriting had returned to its confident, decedent loops, and he’d printed the names of each colour fondly, as though they’re old friends and he’s writing a guest list for a party he wants them all to be invited to.

He seemed to know exactly what he wanted; he must have at least a rough image of the painting he hopes to produce in his mind already---which made something skitter along Y/N’s bones. The prince had imagined her? Thought about her? Arranged her body in his mind until its position and pose brought him some kind of pleasure so strong he wanted to immortalise it---

Some of the pigments he noted down confused Y/N; she recognised them and knew they were too bright, too bold and rich to be the tone of her skin or the drab grey of her clothes. Perhaps they will be for the background, or a chair Loki plans Y/N to pose on?

Y/N looked forward to her trip into the market the next morning. For a short while, she had thought she wouldn’t have a reason to go there for some time. After all, how long would it have taken the prince to conceive another painting if she had not agreed to sit for him? A week? A month? With the imposing ocean of worries currently thrashing about his head---the alliance, the arranged marriage---he may not have felt that tickle of artistic inspiration again for many years. 

But now he has something to paint---something to do---some kind of goal, and it suits him. The promise of a new project---a new purpose--- had already rejuvenated his mood considerably, and when he bid Y/N good night that evening it was with a broad, unbridled smile. It made Y/N’s chest feel all fluttery; as though her rib cage had sprouted many tiny feathered wings, and she had to try hard not to break into a joyful little skip as she made her way to the servant’s quarters for dinner. 

The prince is relaxed and untroubled by nature; almost feline; lounging his long body on things, his eyes usually hooded and mouth curled into a lazy smirk. However, he’d been wilted recently; his laze attitude depressed rather than laid back. This would be good for him, Y/N thought happily. This might take his mind off...well, off everything. 

Off of the Vanir princess he must spend the rest of his extensive life with. 

Off of the prospect of leaving Asgard, his home, for a place he’s never been.

Off of the fact that his world as he knows it; peacefully draped in contented solitude; may be nearing its extinction.

Y/N would like to forget about those things too. Yes, this will benefit the both of them. 

  
  


…

  
  


As Y/N spooned (what Ylva had claimed to be) soup into her mouth in the mess hall later that day, she tried to wrangle in her thoughts and pay attention to Alfdis’ story. It had something to do with guest towels, and Y/N had to gnaw at the fleshy inside of her cheek to keep herself from bursting out with: 

_ ‘I have much more exciting news, Alfdis! The prince wants to paint me! Me! He thinks I’m pretty!’  _

For the realisation had settled in now, even if Loki’s motive still bemused her. He’s going to paint her. The  _ prince _ of Asgard is going to paint her, Y/N, a lowly maid---and he thinks she’s  _ beautiful _ . She’ll pose for him whilst his eyes, those serene clover-coloured eyes trace her body, her face, and immortalise everything he sees in picture form. 

She never would have been able to guess he finds her pretty. He gazes at pretty much everything as though he’s eating it up with his eyes, analysing it. Y/N had seen Loki staring at her like that; with dedicated, interested intensity, and thought nothing of it. 

But now she knows what that look means; that he’s admiring her, and it will make her blush, now, every time she catches him at it. 

The question is; what kind of admiration is it? When he’d said---well, implied---that he finds her beautiful...what kind of beautiful had he meant? Beautiful like a mountain capped with snow? Beautiful like his sister or mother; familiar and warm and inviting? Or beautiful like a woman? Beautiful as in he’d like to slowly ease her clothes from her body, all the while taking in her shape, her curves, the tone of her skin? 

Y/N didn’t even let herself think about that last one. If she had, she would have choked on her soup.

  
  


…

Y/N managed to keep her jaw firmly clamped about the painting and Loki and his admiration all throughout dinner. 

She probably  _ could _ have told Alfdis if she wanted to, but that was just it; Y/N  _ didn’t  _ want to. Like their friendship, this painting will feel much more magical if it’s kept hidden away behind the doors of Loki’s chambers. Y/N refuses to use anything that happens during her time with the prince as material for an amusing anecdote, and there’s no way she’d allow his shy admission of finding her pretty as gossip. No, that would be a secret Y/N held safe, nestled close to her heart even if someone tried to pry it from her hands.

Sleep was hard to achieve that night, and then hard to maintain, excitement and anticipation fizzing away to itself in every corner of Y/N’s brain. However, she wasn’t tired when she woke the next morning, and she walked to the market in high spirits.

However, her good mood fizzled out like a flame suffocated between finger and thumb when she approached Frode’s stall and caught sight of that familiar blonde mop of hair bobbing about over the crowd. It made the muscles in Y/N’s neck wrung themselves out like a dishcloth. She’d been so wrapped up in the comfy shawl of Loki’s admiration that her earlier promise had utterly slipped her mind. 

That she should break up with Arne. 

_ ‘It’s not even breaking up,’  _ Y/N mentally tried to soothe her ruffled feathers,  _ ‘We only went out once.’ _

And anyway, it’s the right thing to do. Well, maybe not the right thing, but she  _ wants _ Loki to paint her more than she’s wanted anything in her life, ever. Even if that means her future is uncertain, even if she never meets another man willing to settle down with her. 

And lying to Arne feels morally wrong on a deep, instinctual level. Stringing him along---pretending she feels for him what he feels for her---had been difficult enough for one  _ evening _ , let alone the rest of their lives. Yes, Asgardian marriages are typically cold-hearted but there is usually at least  _ some _ level of mutual attraction between those involved. Sure, they may not be head-over-heels in love, but they at least like the look of one another enough to want to produce children, and not mind staring at one another from across the dinner table for the foreseeable future. 

But Y/N doesn’t feel  _ anything _ for Arne besides friendship. The desire to laugh and hang out like buddies, friends, pals. But not  _ romantically _ . Y/N doesn’t know if she believes in ‘types’ but if she did, Arne doesn’t seem to be hers. He’s...warm. He’s curves and nubs; all gentle and non-threatening. He’s genial and summery, his skin softly bronzed, his wide hands calloused from manual labour; years of helping his father load wood onto the fire in winter and re-tiling the roof in summer, etcetera. Everything about him is bright, welcoming shades of brown, like the first curled leaf of autumn.

But Y/N isn’t drawn to autumn, or summer, or hot days filled with sweltering planks of sunlight. Not anymore, at least. Now she prefers the bitter, frosty nip of winter, the frigid wind that chases your ankles as you wade through layers of delicate snow. Pale skin like the colourless clouds, jet black hair like strokes of coal. She’s found a new appreciation for angles, sharp and pointed ridges of bone. Most Asgardians are hard, thickened, and muscled; but Y/N doesn’t want that. She’d rather the slender, svelte build of a philosopher, or a writer or…

Or an artist. 

That brought Y/N to her second reason for wanting to uproot any notions Arne had towards her. The prince. She’d told Loki that she isn’t Arne’s sweetheart, she’s not going to  _ lie  _ to a prince. She’d like him to paint her and she knew he wouldn’t if he thought he was treading on another man’s territory. There’s no way Y/N’s mother would approve of her giving up a chance at marriage for something as silly as a portrait of herself---but, the way Y/N sees it, there will be other men. There is still time, and she is still young. And how many other opportunities like being  _ painted _ by a  _ prince _ will life throw her way? She should take it in both hands and not let go. 

She can worry about marriage and her future when Loki moves in with the Vanir princess.

Of course, Arne will ask why Y/N doesn’t want to go out again. They’re perfect for each other (well, Arne is actually a little above Y/N, as far as social status goes, but that didn’t seem to bother him). And last time had gone so well---

How could Y/N explain herself? Possible sentences churned away in her head as she navigated her way through the busy early-morning crowd. It’s not like she could tell the truth.  _ ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to date you because I’m not attracted to you in the slightest, and a prince is doing my portrait’,  _ not only is that wildly offensive but it’s also fundamentally absurd. 

Y/N sighed, trying to ease some of the tension coiled up in her torso like a pile of writhing snakes. Why does her time with the prince make perfect sense in his chambers, but as soon as she enters the real world it appears quixotic and fanciful? Why can’t those two worlds line up? Neatly slot together and work in harmony? 

Posture sagging, Y/N realised there’s no point fretting; one day she won’t have to keep switching between the mellow, fantasy-like world of the prince’s quarters, and stark and harsh, cold reality where everyone must work for a living. One day she will have to settle into one world, and, with the prince moving to the Vanir kingdom Y/N could make a pretty good guess that her future won’t involve lazy afternoons grinding pigment. 

Y/N still hadn’t formulated something to say to Arne when she reached the stall and nudged her list of colours over the counter to Frode. She still hadn’t thought of something to say when Arne turned around from the til and gave Y/N a welcoming smile. 

Something strange happened when Y/N returned it, however. Arne reached up one broad hand and scratched behind his neck.

“Y/N, I wanted to talk to you about something.” He hadn’t even said hello, and Y/N blinked up at him in surprise. His large, friendly features are twisted into what could only be described as nervousness, his lips pressing themselves into a line, his eyebrows pulled close over the bridge of his nose. 

_ ‘Odin help me,’  _ Y/N thought as she forced her shoulders into a casual shrug.  _ ‘He’s about to ask me out again, and here I am about to break up with him for no good reason’.  _ “Sure.”

As Arne led Y/N around the back of the stall---where he’d pierced her ears what seems like years ago---she frantically tried to jam words together in her mind, to form any kind of reasonable excuse:

_ ‘I’m moving to a new town---?’  _ Terrible, they’re bound to run into each other. And how would she buy Loki’s paints? In a  _ disguise? _

_ ‘Someone else proposed to me---?’  _ No, he’d expect to see a ring or necklace or something, and probably want to be invited to the wedding, and he’d ask questions every time she sees him and she’d have to  _ lie--- _

Y/N was a little short of breath by the time Arne turned to her, his expression almost sombre. He’d laced his thick fingers together, his gaze not lining up with Y/N’s, and scratched behind his neck again. Y/N imagined the freckled skin below his shirt collar to be streaked in red nail marks. 

“Y/N, I had a really nice time the other night.”

“So did I,” Y/N tried to say lightly, but it came out more forced than cheerful. She winced, and dared a glance at Arne’s face for hurt, but she needn't have worried. He seems preoccupied with his own plight of saying whatever it is he wants to say.

Although it doesn’t look like he  _ wants _ to say it. It’s more like he  _ has _ to say it, like a doctor about to deliver bad news. “You’re kind and funny and clever but…”

“Yes?” The tension was getting to Y/N now, she almost wanted to take his shoulders; like one stubby length of rope, they are, she realised, and give him a good shake. 

“But there’s someone else.” He managed to drag his eyes to Y/N’s face, cringing as if it took physical effort. 

“Someone else?” Tumbled from her jaw that was hanging open slightly. All the tension she’d been holding tightly onto had suddenly flown away, like a flock of restless birds released from a cage.

“Yes. She comes by to get medicine for her mother, and we’ve started meeting in the evenings---as friends. But I think I...well, with your permission, I’d like to ask her if she’d like to be a bit more than friends.”

When Y/N just stared at him, he continued, sounding rushed, as if he’s pouring out everything all with one breath:

“I really like you, Y/N, but after we went out you didn’t ask to see me again, and we didn’t… you know, kiss or anything, you didn’t even take my hand.” He sucked in another quick lungful of air, “But this girl does---at least, she did until I mentioned I’m seeing someone, but you  _ didn’t _ that’s my point, so I thought well, maybe…”

Y/N cut him off by reaching out and pressing the pads of her fingers to his mouth, silencing him. He’d squeezed his eyes shut, as if in anticipation of a hefty slap, but peeked out from under his lids at Y/N’s gentle touch. 

She was smiling. Arne’s lips are course under Y/N’s hand. She retracted it, and he blinked down at her. “I thought the same thing.”

His spine loosened and he actually seemed to shrink by an entire inch. 

Hesitantly: “You did?”

Y/N nodded, unable to keep from grinning. Joy was making her head feel light and it was a struggle to not sound utterly euphoric when she said: “Yes. I like you a lot but not...I don’t think I like you like that. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, it’s okay.” Arne’s mouth turned up into a tentative smile. “You’re really not upset?”

Shaking her head: “Not at all, really, I promise. Thank you for the meteor shower. We should stay friends.”

He beamed, all smooth wedges of tooth and dimples and freckles; like someone had flicked brown paint at him, or he’d been on a very muddy walk. It was the prettiest Y/N had ever found him. 

“Of course, definitely.”

They both stood awkwardly. It wasn’t that they were unsure of what to say next, more that they were both allowing their muscles to un-knot themselves. They’re revelling in the relief that these past few minutes had gone much smoother than they’d anticipated. Y/N recovered first, and said, giving Arne’s side a teasing little nudge with her elbow:

“So, tell me about this other girl.”


	17. Chapter 17

It was much easier talking to Arne now that she knows he doesn't expect anything from her, Y/N thought absently as she leaned against the counter of Frode's stall. The little old man was still darting about, collecting up the pigments on Loki's list, so Arne and Y/N had time to chat while he tended to the other customers.

His new girlfriend---or, she will be, if she accepts his invitation to the local tavern tomorrow evening---is called Sigrid. Arne strung together a poetic description, weaving a mental tapestry of a fair woman with hair the colour of embers. She sounds much more suited to Arne's humble, domestic ways and Y/N wishes their relationship all the best.

Y/N took the bag of pigments from Frode, feeling positively chipper. She had watched him with interest as he took colours she hadn't seen before from heavy glass jars and narrow, delicate vials, and wondered what the prince could possibly have in mind for them all. His chambers _do_ feature a vast array of greens---for that is what many of these pigments appeared to be---but few are as rich, as dark and full as those that the cheerful little apothecary had dished out into those familiar little boxes.

Perhaps he intends to use them not in the foreground, but as a base layer; to set the tone and mood of the painting, Y/N had pondered as she watched another lump of mossy powder fall into its allocated container. If so, the painting will turn out to be quite dark, Y/N realised, trying to form some kind of mental picture of it in her mind. She placed down a foundation of that deep forest-floor green and imagined painting over it with regular colours---skin tones and the grey of her uniform---

But, no matter how many coats her imagination applied to this make-believe picture, the green just made everything...green. It didn't set an atmosphere or a tone, it just stained everything with a sickly tinge, as if mould was nibbling through the paint.

Surely the prince knows this? Y/N mused. So what are all those greens for?

...

Midday broke around Y/N as she drifted through the stalls, the sky ripening to a pleasant forget-me-not blue. She let the natural ebb-and-flow of the crowd nudge her along like she's afloat a lazy river, admiring the products for sale either side of her as she passes them.

The market is a treat for the senses, the general chaos complemented and heightened by the fact that there seems to be no order to anything at all. People from all walks of life are gathered in this tightly-knit jumble of sheds, marquees, and even, sometimes, just kitchen tables clearly taken from home. No matter the quality of someone's stall, however, the playing field is levelled by geographical location. No spot is better or worse, no one area hogs all the business. Rich and poor sell their goods right next to each other, so one minute you may be browsing a heap of home-grown vegetables flecked with soil and caterpillars, and then you'll be face to face with a glass case containing rings made from solid gold, little grains of diamond pressed into their spotless surfaces.

These stalls, the ones shrouded in decadent jewellery, have a tendency to cast a greyness over Y/N's mood. Not because she wants the jewellery (although, honestly, who doesn't want nice things?), but because of what the jewellery _represents_. Y/N does not crave those delicate necklaces and long, elegant earrings, she doesn't _want_ to buy then. She'd just like to have the _choice_ to buy them; to be financially secure enough to treat herself if the whim should strike.

To stare at those pretty little trinkets and know they are beyond her reach no matter how hard she works scratches a deep wound onto her sense of freedom.

Eventually, the natural current of the meandering crowd deposited Y/N at Aasta's stall. Y/N's mood had perked back up again by that time, the qualms over her social status (well, lack of) forgotten, and replaced with the sweet promise of delectable treats---as well as the genial aura of the woman selling them. Aasta is like that. She's just one of those people you're always happy to see. She has the power to bring a smile to almost anyone's face, Y/N is fairly sure. Everything about her radiates warmth and a pleasant sense of familiarity. Like the smell of dinner on the stove, or a jumper that fits just right.

Y/N greeted Aasta with a smile---as she was busy serving a customer---and began the task of picking out what to purchase with the little stack of coins Loki had given her the day before.

She took a little longer choosing than usual, turning the wedges of currency over in one hand. She'd been doing that recently, overly conscious that---with the prince's arranged marriage---this may be one of the last times she gets to do so.

Loki isn't even engaged yet, Y/N reminded herself every time she felt her thoughts veering off into pessimistic territory.

Although---realism would pipe up---he will be engaged _one_ _day_. This seemed to have turned into a mutual understanding between the prince and his housemaid. Maybe not soon, maybe not for a while, but one day he will be wed.

Maybe because of The Allfather's persistent nudging.

Or maybe because Loki's own guilt is eating away at his conscience with every passing minute. He'd turned down the proposal at first (despite his opinion probably having very little bearing) but after a few weeks of knowing the blood of future wars may be on his hands, well, the prince's mind is sure to change. He will give in, give way under the pressure; under the knowledge that its the right thing to do. His low mood keeps betraying the fact that he both knows and anticipates this as well.

"What will it be, honey?" Aasta's kindly tone found Y/N deep in her pit of worries and pulled her up to the surface. Her voice is curled with that distinct accent most of the working-class don't seem to be able to shake. It's clipped, and syllables are cut short, words rounded off. It would sound gruff on a man, but, coming from Aasta's mouth---all wide with a light-hearted beam---it borders more on motherly than anything.

Y/N met her kindly gaze and gave her a weak smile, trying to push away her anxieties. She should revel in the moment, enjoy the present; and all that lark. The youngest prince of Asgard is going to paint her portrait, and right now she needs to pick out a snack for them to share while he does it.

"I'm not sure yet." Y/N's eyes swept the vast array of colourful little delicacies, flashes of taste sparking in her memory as her gaze caught things that had excited her tongue so many times before.

"Well, what does he like?" Aasta asked casually, her plush fingers digging around her till to find the gentleman to Y/N's left some change.

Y/N blinked up at her in surprise. "What makes you think they aren't for me?"

She gave Y/N a knowing look, one side of her mouth twitching with the ghost of a smirk. Her rounded cheek studded with a dimple, "Well, _are_ they for you?"

Wavering: "No."

It's true, they're not. Well, Loki gives Y/N money in the hope that she'll buy what _she_ wants, but she still never does. Y/N buys whatever she thinks will make the prince do that sinfully-delectable moaning thing when he bites into it. The back of Y/N's neck was beginning to heat up under the collar of her starchy dress (and not just because of the concerningly appealing mental images now flooding her brain-space). She feels as though she's been caught out buying gifts for her secret beau.

"How could you tell?"

Aasta had located some change now, and handed them to the man to Y/N's side, waving him on his way. He thanked her, cheeks pink below his prickly beard. Y/N has never seen so many people looking so positively in love before she became a regular at Aasta's stall. Everyone is in love with Aasta.

"You always take so long to choose," said woman shrugged simply. "I watch your eyes flick about over each item like you're making mental notes."

Y/N blushes under the baker's amused smile. "I could just be really picky about what I want," she tried, but the older woman shook her head.

"No, I know that look. Only someone picking out something for someone else would take that long to decide. You buy what you think _he'll_ like, not what _you_ want. If it was for you, you wouldn't take half as long."

"You keep saying 'he'," Y/N pointed out.

She'd be lying if she claimed to not be impressed. Who knew a homely baker could also possess the astute observational skills of a law enforcement officer? She probably could have been one, in another life. Or a physician. Yes, Y/N could easily imagine her with a stethoscope wrapped about her rounded shoulders, tending to the sick with genuine compassion. Everyone loves her and she loves them back.

"I could have been buying for my mother or sister or---"

Aasta shook her head, her bun bouncing from side to side. "No, they're for a man---and a very special man, by that look in your eyes. You were thinking about him a minute ago, I could tell." He tapped the soft pad of one finger to the side of her nose, giving a wink at the colour Y/N's cheeks had gained.

She wanted to tell Aasta she's wrong, that the man she's buying for _isn't_ special---that she doesn't like him like that---but she couldn't bring the words up from her chest. Instead, Y/N self-consciously smoothed down invisible creases in her bodice, feeling suddenly naked. "Are you a witch?" she asked, only half-joking, and this made Aasta's plump lips spread in a loud laugh.

"No, deary, I've just been in this business a long time. And I have five daughters; they think they're being all secretive and cunning, hiding their crushes from me but I know. I always know."

She'd served three other customers since the man who needed change, and Y/N still hadn't made a decision on what to buy. Although, to be fair, the metaphorical rug had just been tugged out from under her feet. It's true, her little crush on the prince hadn't really shifted, or even faded slightly. In fact, it has kind of---although Y/N refuses to admit it---flourished into something a bit more than simple infatuation.

Friendship, surely that's what that feeling is? Y/N hoped internally every time she came face to face with that new, stronger, bit-more-than-a-crush sensation. It _has_ to be friendship, simple fondness, because she can't be... she mustn't be... it would be morally wrong for her to be in... _love_ with Loki. Wouldn't it? Morally wrong and stupid.

So what if he's the most breath-taking male she'd ever seen? So what that he's gentle and patient and intelligent and funny and playful and---

Everything Y/N could ever want in a man.

An image flashed hot and sweet in Y/N's mind; of waking up beside the prince, his long, powerful body wrapped neatly around hers in the soft caress of his velvety duvet---

and she nearly caught fire.

Oh dear.

A soft little chuckle brought her back to reality.

"What?" Y/N asked, trying desperately hard to keep her voice even.

Aasta gave her that wise, knowing look, and a smile that suggested she'd seen every single thought that had just passed through Y/N's head. "You were thinking about him again."

...

Eventually, and feeling somewhere between humiliated and troubled, Y/N chose to buy two thick wedges of toffee cake for herself and the prince. She hadn't managed to reach this conclusion on her own; Aasta had had to intervine after six minutes of Y/N just staring blankly at her stall. Y/N wasn't even thinking about cake at that point, her mind was far off in some distant realm of thought where she was turning over her life decisions and glaring at them critically.

 _'Trust me to fall for someone utterly off-limits,'_ Y/N cursed at herself as Aasta attempted to coax her decision along. _'A_ prince _, of all people. If he ever finds out he'll fire me on the spot for misconduct.'_ Her stomach coiled in on itself uncomfortably, _'Or laugh at me.'_ For some reason, the idea of Loki cackling at her affections cut into Y/N's heart more than being fired for lack of professionalism ever could.

What finally brought Y/N out of her introspection was Aasta's suggestion that she buy the toffee cake.

"Here, it's nice and filling," she'd said as she slipped the cake knife between the plate and the dessert's spongy underside. "Lonely people always like my toffee cake."

Brows furrowing, paying attention now, Y/N had asked: "How'd you know he's lonely?" She's not shocked by Aasta's uncanny powers now, just curious. She isn't even wrong; the youngest prince of Asgard is famously isolated both emotionally and physically. Sadness about that fact was enough to make Y/N forget her own personal plights for a second, and open her canvas bag so Aasta could place the cake boxes carefully inside.

"Everything you buy him is comfort food, poor lad. Is he very shy?"

Y/N nodded, unable to help a small smile grace her lips. She appreciated the anonymity; she'd never been able to talk with anyone about the prince, and she has so much to say. She feels as though she's stumbled across an endangered creature, but can't tell the world because people might hunt it for sport. Loki interests her, like a rare bird or a wildflower, but she has no one to pour her endearment to.

Maybe she does, now.

"Yes." The light returning to her face, Y/N had passed the little stack of coins---warmed by so long sat snuggly in her palm---over to Aasta. "He's not really a people person."

"But he likes you, though," Aasta pointed out, making something in Y/N's chest flutter.

Cheeks going pink again, she muttered, shy like a child: "I think so."

Aasta pressed some change into Y/N's hand, giving her one of her signature smiles. "Of course he does. Here's your change, sweety, now you go give him a big hug from me, okay? We have to look out for the quiet ones; they're often ignored for so long they forget they're special."

...

Loki greeted Y/N at the door to his chambers as soon as her tentative knock resonated about the empty corridors. He greeted her with a wide smile, which made Y/N's shoulders loosen in relief; every time the prince smiles nowadays---with his uncertain future hanging over his pretty head---is some kind of blessing.

They spent a couple of hours preparing the pigments Y/N had bought, sitting at the low little table in Loki's studio. Although there hadn't actually been any kind of hiatus between Loki's paintings, Y/N felt infinitely glad to be back there, perched cross-legged on the plush, paint-stained pillow. For a while, they could pretend everything is normal, just become absorbed in the process of crushing, mixing and passing light conversation back and forth between them. As usual, Loki asked after the health of Alfdis and Frode, then, after Arne. He hadn't raised his head from what he was doing, but his tone was different; it sort of rose up at the end.

"He's fine," Y/N answered, shrugging. It felt strange discussing Arne to Loki; like she's telling her present husband that she ran into an ex while she was out.

When Loki said nothing, Y/N felt prompted to fill the silence by continuing:

"I finally got up the courage to tell him I just like him as a friend, which took a weight off my mind. I didn't like to think I was stringing him along."

This did make the prince look up, his piercing eyes on the side of Y/N's face. Only for a second, though. He soon directed them back down to the paint he was stirring. "Did he take the news well?"

Y/N couldn't help smiling at the memory. He'd look so _bashful_ ; it had been quite endearing. "Yes, actually, better than I'd thought he would. He's found a new girl already. Sigrid."

Loki nodded slowly, then asked, as if treading carefully: "And you are...okay with that?"

"Of course." She must have sounded convincingly indifferent because Loki relaxed next to her, and seemed rather cheerful for the next half an hour.

He continued to ask after characters Y/N had told him about; a woman who wishes her good morning on her way past the stalls that sell different types of bread. The girl Y/N sometimes bumps into at Frode's, buying daily medicine for her sick brother. Loki had also become somewhat invested in Aasta; seeing as she makes the snacks he's now so fond of.

He says they're not like the treats made by the palace chefs; they use the most expensive ingredients just because they can. Where Aasta's desserts are slabs of moist, creamy heaven---perfect in their simple, uncomplicated way---the palace chefs Appear to hold a more restrained attitude towards, well, everything. Butter, eggs, milk, all are seen as common and thus substituted for strange foodstuffs Y/N had never heard of. The first time Loki told her you could milk a tree nut she'd assumed he was pulling her leg. He then seemed to extend the joke by disappearing and returned with a thin, dry, yellow slice of something that he said the chefs had claimed to be lemon cake. Y/N had laughed, told him she's not stupid enough to eat a washroom sponge, then watched in horror as the prince sank the white wedges of his teeth into it.

It was not a sponge, it was, apparently, food (although, Y/N tried some soon after and still wasn't utterly sure that 'food' is the right word).

Loki seems to be very curious about the outside world, and the more Y/N learns about his life as a prince the more this begins to makes sense. He's intrigued by anything that happens beyond the palace walls, becoming absorbed in Y/N's tales of her past and present as a working-class citizen. He eats up her words with hungry, childish interest, asking questions to get those little extra details. She strings things out for his amusement, describing with long, decadent sentences. He'd already familiar with anything the merchants at the market can sell---he probably already owns most of it---so Y/N focuses more on the things she think will interest him. Things that are beautiful and things that are out of his reach.

The prince can not simply walk through the centre of the crowded market place unnoticed. Children would stop playing, sellers would stop shouting praise of their products, all idle chat would silence.

So Y/N tells him of phrases she'd heard that made her smile---women telling stories about their useless husbands, husbands showing off about their wonderful wives, snotty-nosed toddlers putting up a fuss about nothing in particular. She described watching a man fillet a fish, the dexterity of his knives, his movements so precise despite missing three fingers. She told him about a barrel of seeds she'd submerged her hand in, a woman she'd seen tattooing a picture of a fish onto a man's shoulder with a needle.

The prince can not simply walk outside palace grounds without guards of some kind close by, so, to be alone, he must settle for the royal gardens, caged in by high walls. Everything inside is perfect and manicured, not a leaf out of place, not a rock where a rock should not be.

So Y/N described to him the precise shade of the crabgrass, how it's starting to creep up through the gravel in the pathways. The crunch underfoot of mud and stones, how little bits of it get into your shoes no matter how careful you are. She told him of the smell of fruit, vegetables, animals, flowers, meat---so many people---all packed in together, sweet, sharp, pungent, and yet so bitter with salt.

These things interest him the most; the gross, nitty-gritty reality of things that are strange and wrong and leave a vile taste in most people's mouths. Drunk people shouting meaningless syllables, strange people with odd talents who charge you to watch them swallow a sword, kids making mischief. _Free_ people. Imperfections fascinate the prince in a simple, innocent kind of way. His world is so untarnished and symmetrical, which has sparked within him a deeply-rooted need for entropy. It's as though he's drawn to chaos, not in a self-destructive kind of way, but in a way that he feels it gives life flavour. He's attracted to blemishes and flaws, things that aren't good enough, things that are cheap and inelegant, their disorder amusing and whimsical. The outside world is like another universe, and yet its only several hundred yards from his front door.

...

When the paint had been made, sitting in a row of delicate bowls, ready for use, Y/N suddenly felt a little nibbling of nerves over what comes next.

Over what is to be _done_ with them.

The idea of the prince staring at her, painting her in detail for hours on end had seemed appealing in theory, but daunting in practice. Despite their leafy hue, Loki's eyes are startlingly intense and sharp, boring into her at the best of times. How would it feel to have that intensity, that attention, trained on her for so long? Especially now, after Y/N's recent revelation about her...feelings for him. He'll probably take one look at her and she'd spontaneously combust.

Y/N swallowed, moistening her lips. They're dry, and Loki watches her tongue run across them. He probably knows what she's thinking, knows, somehow, that she's self-conscious and embarrassed. He thought she's beautiful before, but now, surely, all he sees is a bundle of anxieties wriggling with apprehension. He's probably noting her tensed shoulders and thinking about how she won't be able to relax and take the pose he wants of her.

"So," Y/N pushed from her lungs, trying to sound confident. She wants to be a good model for him, a good muse. She has to be, or he'll have nothing to paint and then what? No more trips to the market, no more lazy hours spent laughing and chatting over bowls of pigment.

She gestured about the room, but clearly referring to the entirety of his chambers as she asked: "Where do you want me?"

That had sounded much lewder than Y/N had intended, and colour flushed from the tips of her ears right down to her collarbones.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Loki's lip.

"I-I mean, for the painting," she hastily corrected.

"Really? I'm crushed," the prince quipped, his voice a velvet curl of amusement, and Y/N gave his side a light jab with her pointed elbow.

She's glad of his joshing, though. It eased some of her tension. He's just a friend, who wants to do some art. "I meant _where do you want me to pose?"_

Looking thoughtful, now Loki absently prodded at some olive-coloured paint pooled in the bottom of a nearby bowl with the end of a brush. Y/N could never tell when he did this---fiddling with the paint---whether he's doing it to check its consistency or just because his hands are bored.

"I'm not actually sure yet," he replied after a few leisurely moments watching the green goo ooze off the end of the paintbrush and back into the bowl. "I've been mulling that over all day."

This came as a surprise. Y/N had been working under the assumption that, with the multitudinous amount of very specific pigment he'd requested, he had a location picked out already. A location that involved a lot of mossy colours all rich and dark and green.

"I assumed you had a painting in mind," Y/N voiced her thoughts, the prince's angular, handsome face still pensive.

He's probably picturing each room of his chambers, placing Y/N somewhere in it and adjusting her limbs, testing whether what he saw pleased him. The thought of her body sprawled out in his mind---her appearance _pleasing_ him---stirred something within her stomach that was both disturbing and delicious.

"I knew what I wanted to paint--- _you_ \---I just don't know where or how."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "What's with all the greens, then?"

To that, Loki blinked as if woken from sleep---or remembering something he'd forgotten, which is what had probably happened. "Oh yes." A small, soft curling of his lip. "I have something to show you." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this story is way too long, sorry


	18. Chapter 18

Y/N followed close at Loki's heels, her pace having to remain brisk to keep up with them, curious expectation fueling her with enough energy to do so. A slight tilt of Loki's head, a flick of his eyes, revealed that he'd noticed her effort, however, and he slowed his own elegant strides to accommodate Y/N's much shorter legs. She smiled in thanks, and settled into a much more comfortable rhythm, watching the nubbed point of her canvas slippers as not to kick his shins.

This was made difficult by the fact that he'd slowed down even more.

And some more, until he eventually drew to a sluggish halt.

Question rose from Y/N's lungs but got caught in her throat as one of Loki's large, deliberate hand reached out and took her wrist. Gently, he tugged her closer until she was level with his side.

"You don't need to walk behind me," he pointed out, his cool, tender grip releasing Y/N's arm as he set into another walk.

_..._

It felt wrong walking in line with a member of the royal family. Like slamming a door in a Queen's face, or asking a King to go fetch her some water. It isn't even a written rule that the help should scurry along behind royalty's ankles, it's just another one of those things all servants and staff just seem to...know. 

But there had been a tautness to Loki's voice, a pleading edge that reminded Y/N of something he'd told her. About how people only ever see him as a prince, how they're too scared to treat him like a person.

She wants him to know she sees him as a person. She sees _him_.

So, smiling shyly, Y/N matched his steps, their legs moving in unison. Their feet began to line up, falling into a comfortable tempo, his bony and bare and as pale as the marble they tread on, Y/N's slippered and much much smaller.

Y/N didn't know whether to be excited or apprehensive about what Loki had to show her, and her blood only flooded with more adrenaline when she realised he was leading her to his bedroom. What could he possibly want to show her in here?

Well, she could think of one thing. Several things.

Despite this, she didn't slow down or falter.

She'd long since admitted to herself that she has a primal kind of fascination with the prince's long, sinewy body. She can't help but wonder whether the parts of him she hasn't seen are as magnificent as the parts she has; sleek, silken, inky hair, jutting ridges and hills of bone, supple muscles sliding below ethereal moon-beam skin.

Anticipation of what comes _after_ showing Y/N his body hadn't really begun to take shape, even as Loki pushed open the door and motioned for her to follow him inside. If it had, she may have faltered, or at least hesitated.

A prude, bashful mind meant she hadn't yet questioned whether she'd be willing to---would _like_ to do---anything the prince may be about to ask of her. Not even in the secure fortress of her thoughts, or the dark, shaded area at the back of her consciousness had Y/N turned the idea over. She hadn't needed to; when several days had passed under Loki's employment and he still hadn't asked her to bed, Y/N made some assumptions about his character and the nature of their relationship. She'd assumed that he isn't that kind of prince---that kind of man. 

But had she been wrong?

And, if she had; does she mind?

The doorjamb passes Y/N's eyeline like teeth edging a gaping mouth, and she swallows, her mind running away with mental images of---

Of things that were not going to happen.

Yes, Loki is waiting for her by the bed, but he's fully clothed, his expression nowhere near as sultry as would be expected of a man about to exploit the sensuality of an attractive young woman.

Much to her dismay and confusion, this causes Y/N an irrational level of disappointment.

So he _hadn't_ wanted to spread her out over his silken mattress, below the reassuring weight of his body?

She _wouldn't_ learn what the pink dash of his lips feels like pressed to her skin, the strong wedges of his white teeth just behind, brushing---?

He _doesn't_ want to show off the full capabilities of that dexterous, skilful tongue?

Almost frustrated, Y/N opened her mouth to ask what it was he _did_ want, but then she saw it.

A dress had been spread out over the bed.

It's enchanting. It's green. Green like gazing into the woods at night, an intense, deep colour, bold yet dark, so dark, the hue mysterious and endless. Evergreen trees. That's the shade; the waxy green of pine needles, thick leaves immune to frost and snow. Slender reels of gold lacing outline key elements, the colour like mellow sunlight leaking through branches.

It's long, the skirt's gold-trimmed hem designed to flutter playfully about the wearer's ankles and compliment her steps with a majestic swishing of fabric. The shape of it, the sweep of the plush velvety material, has a way of drawing your eyes downwards along its entire length, its curves and subtle cling forcing you to linger around the inhabitant's hips before moving on to the stretch of her legs. Even now, when it's completely empty, Y/N found her gaze being led from the delicate, shapely bodice to the wider, almost curtain-like skirt as though the garment knew that it is gorgeous and is eager to show itself off.

It _would_ show itself off, show off the body of the _wearer;_ the neckline hanging low around the chest, displaying a curved rectangle of skin. Despite this, it's not provocative or tacky. An opaque, meshy sort of material flows up from the neckline to a slender collar that fits snugly around the neck, caging the body inside the garment with tasteful modesty. Two more of these collars feature around the wrist area, the sleeves fashioned from that same gauzy material, giving the whole thing a delicate, feminine appearance.

The dress seems made to flaunt the wearer in a very look-but-don't-touch kind of way; exposing skin only to hide it, keep it teasingly out of reach behind a delicate divide. It radiates class and nobility, elegance and style. Y/N had never been to one of the palace's balls but she'd heard of them---watched the guests file into the main entrance---and each woman had sported a dress like this. Y/N imagined them flouncing deftly about the Great Hall, leaving a trail of floral perfume, the light rustling swish of expensive fabric, and stupefied male gazes in their wake.

Y/N swallowed, looking from the prince's patient, waiting eyes then back to the dress again. She wanted to reach out and touch it---but withdrew her hand. It would be wrong for her to touch it. She feels as though her social status would somehow stain it; as though her fingerprints would leave an oily smudge across its front. Or, like a flower stroked by the hand of death, it might wither and die before her eyes.

But then she put two and two together.

The painting.

The green pigments.

Her voice wobbled. "...You want me to wear this?"

Loki's broad shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. He's leaning against one of the four bed-posts as if this is a _regular_ thing, a _normal_ thing for them to be doing. As if he hadn't just supplied Y/N with an outfit worth more than---well, more than her. If you were to sell _Y/N_ and this dress at a market, the dress would bring in a higher profit, she knew that for a fact.

" _I_ don't mind if you do or don't," Loki said, and he sounded like he was telling the truth.

This made Y/N's stomach unknot itself in mild relief; she didn't like the idea of someone---anyone---telling her how to clothe herself. It's humiliating enough being told to don her grey uniform day in and day out, but at least t _hat's_ not sexualised or designed for a male gaze.

This dress isn't exactly designed for that; it has more of a refined-woman-admiring-herself-in-a-looking-glass feel to it, and yet Y/N knew most men would consider her more than appealing, draped in its alluring fabrics. Loki surely is no exception, so it eased her nerves knowing he isn't forcing her to wear it for his own amusement.

"You'll look radiant in the painting either way," he continued, which made a shy heat suffuse Y/N's cheeks. "I just thought you might want to wear something a little more...personal, seeing as I'm about to immortalise your likeness."

Y/N knew what he meant, and it had crossed her mind also. No, she didn't want to be painted in her maids uniform, that would be...well, it would mean she'd forever be remembered as a maid. Loki had guessed right, being painted in this absolute _beauty_ is much more appealing. Just getting to slip into it for ten minutes would be an experience within itself.

But something made Y/N bite her lower lip. She turned to the prince, her gaze serious so he knew she wanted the truth---the whole truth---when she asked: "Whose is it?"

His past lovers ran through Y/N's mind. Well, danced, all feminine and sensual and with more class than she could ever hope of having. Because this dress can't be Frigga's. Y/N had only laid eyes on Her Majesty rarely but for long enough to know that these are not her measurements. No, this dress had to have belonged to a woman Loki has...entertained. Or, _she'd_ entertained _him,_ just like Y/N had thought he wanted _her_ to do only moments ago. Either way, some woman must have left it behind and Loki is lending it to Y/N, like a charity case, to pose in for her painting. Does he have a whole wardrobe of clothes left by former sweethearts? Women so wealthy, so elite, they can afford to just discard, forget about, leave behind a dress like this?

"It's yours."

Y/N did a sort of double-take, her jaw falling open. "What?"

Loki is so calm, so serene. He's watching her through lazily hooded eyes, his long, lean body propped up because this is so _normal_ for him he doesn't even see a need to stand up straight. "I had it made for you. It should fit, but if it doesn't we could always---"

"You _bought_ this?" Y/N would have shrieked it if her throat wasn't doing a strange tightening thing. " _You_ _bought_ _this?_ For _me?"_ The very notion was absurd. It was ludicrous, insane, crazy, it was...

A dream? Surely this is some kind of fantasy. She must have been pushing a mop about the palace entry in the brittle winter dawn, slipped on a step slick with soapy water, and now she's laying, concussed on the stairs, having vivid hallucinations.

"Yes. Is that okay?" Loki asked, seeming suddenly concerned. The dark lines of his eyebrows had pulled together into an anxious frown. "I know I should have asked what you like, but I knew you'd be too humble and just choose whatever's cheapest."

"Yes, I would have done, nay, I wouldn't have let you buy this _at_ _all_ ," Y/N's voice had raised in pitch slightly, all breathy and edged with disbelief. "I wouldn't have let you buy it because...because it's---I'm a _maid._ I can't wear clothes like this!" She gestured at it, dangerously close to barking a bitter, cackling laugh. Even the _notion---_

"No one will know," Loki replied, his words so low and silky compared to Y/N's almost hysterical tone. Then something like worry flashed over his eyes, his cool completely disappearing. "You don't like it?"

Y/N's mouth opened and closed several times before it managed to push out anything resembling a sentence. She turned to him, his lean, svelte form now watching her, disquieted, waiting. She wanted to touch him, take some part of him. Mainly to hold herself upright. "No, Loki, Odin's beard, no," Y/N did laugh, then, she couldn't help it. It came out as a watery little giggle. How could anyone not _like---_

"I love it," she assured, putting a hand on his arm now and giving a comforting squeeze.

His chest deflated as if he'd been holding in a breath, his smile returning tentatively.

"I absolutely love it, I'm _in_ love with it."

Obviously relieved: "Is green okay? I guessed you liked it because of your earrings. Although I went for gold accents rather than silver because they're warmer."

Y/N was too distracted to ask or even wonder why the prince saw her as warm. She let go of his arm, hesitantly because her knees felt as though they're made from the toffee cake she'd brought, her lips still slightly parted. Lightly, Y/N reached out to run the pad of her finger down the gold braiding lining the cuff of one sleeve.

"I would have bought gold earrings if I could have afforded it," she muttered absently as the silky bumps passed under her skin. She could feel Loki's gaze on the side of her face, see the fond curve of his smile.

Straightening back up, Y/N shook her head. "You shouldn't have done this. Wasted all that money on me."

"Yes, it was a waste to buy you _another_ dress," Loki replied tartly, "You've got so many after all. It'll probably just get stuffed to the back of your wardrobe and forgotten about."

Y/N moistened her lips and the prince's features softened suddenly.

"Sorry. I didn't mean---"

"No, it's okay," Y/N waved off his apologies. "I was just realising you're right. I don't even have a wardrobe, so if I did accept it I'd have nowhere to store it. Something like this doesn't fit into my life, Loki." She turned to him, expecting to find confusion, irritation, at her ungratefulness.

However, instead, his pale eyes were tender as he regarded her almost sadly.

"I can't accept this. You wouldn't understand; this is just a casual outfit for you, something to lounge around in. For me...well, put it this way: even if I'd saved up every penny I've ever earnt, I still wouldn't be able to afford the material to _make_ this dress, let alone the finished product."

For some reason, Y/N felt like crying. She felt like crying in that way where you're not really _sad_ , per se, you're just...everything. You're happy and you're upset and you're afraid and so very full of humiliating unrequited love--- you're so full of _things_ that _something_ has to escape, and that something is almost always tears.

Loki had stepped closer to Y/N without her realising. She'd been too busy trying to blink away that stinging sensation in the corner of her eyes to notice the prince raise a large delicate hand to cup her face.

With his thumb, gently and full of latent strength, he brushed away a tear from Y/N's cheek. Smiling down at her he said softly:

"I wouldn't have gotten it for you if I'd have known I'd have to watch you cry."

Y/N sniffed. One of her cheeks was burning hot with humiliation and the other was cooled by the firm spread of Loki's palm. Her jawline slots snugly into it, the bone cradled as though he's holding an eggshell. "Sorry," she mumbled, desperately willing herself to stop as another tear dribbled from her lid. It had collected, swelling until she blinked, the little damp trail it left cold against her skin.

Loki wiped that one away too. He's so close she can feel his breath. If she closed her eyes she might have guessed she'd left a window open; a subtle breeze brushing the ends of her nerve cells like feathers.

He shook his head. "Don't apologise, you've done nothing wrong. You don't have to keep the dress, if it makes you feel sad."

"It doesn't," Y/N said quickly, not because she wants to keep it (even though she _does)_ but because she doesn't want Loki to think he's upset her. He _hasn't_. He's done the opposite; he just wanted her to feel comfortable, to feel _beautiful_ \---

As beautiful as he sees her.

The dress doesn't make Y/N sad, everything surrounding it does. What it _represents_. She's poor, so poor, and she'll always be poor. She can parade around in gorgeous gowns all she likes, but that won't change the fact that she's doing just that; parading. Putting on a show. Pretending, like she's a child dressing up in her mother's clothes and posing as a grownup.

"Are you sure? I should have thought it through, it was mean of me to---"

"It wasn't," Y/N cut him off. She didn't even feel that usual stabbing of shame at interrupting royalty, this time. He was being self-deprecating, she'd made him feel guilty when he'd done nothing _wrong_. "You remembered I love the colour green. You had this made, for me, to make me happy and comfortable. That's so thoughtful of you, I don't think...well, no one's ever treated me as nicely as you have."

Loki beamed bashfully, retracting his hand now that Y/N's tears had given away to a weak smile.

She missed his touch, the reassuring firmness of it. Despite his many willowy, graceful attributes, the prince is very much a male, and it shows in the way he handles Y/N's delicate form. There's a power within it, a strength held back, restrained in a way that reminds her she's a woman.

"I'm glad you like it." He turned to the dress still laid out neatly over the bed. It lacks creases, every inch of it void of wrinkles; unrumpled.

Y/N wondered if Loki had spent time smoothing it out earlier, so it looks perfect for when he introduces it to its owner. She pictured him like a nervous schoolboy about to give his first sweetheart a present.

Has he ever given another woman a present? Or at least, one like this; With her shape and favourite colour in mind? This dress is _designed_ for Y/N, that becomes more clear with every passing second her eyes lay on its rich fabrics. The prince must have been present for every stage of its design, given his input, adding bits that would compliant Y/N's specific figure and removing any parts that did not.

"I'd really like you to keep it," he said, waking Y/N from her stupor.

Who cares if he's given gifts like this to other women?

"It's designed for you; it's yours, if you want it. I can keep it here for you, if you like. You can change into it when you arrive each morning and change back into your uniform before you go down to the servants quarters at dinner."

Y/N didn't have the heart to ask:

_'What happens to it if you move to the Vanir kingdom?'_

Instead, she pushed that thought from her mind and looked to Loki, and then back to the dress. She shouldn't accept it. She's a _maid---_

But it's so beautiful, and Loki had seemed so hurt when he'd thought she didn't like it.

Almost shaking, Y/N reached out and took the gown in her hands, lifting it from the prince's duvet as though it's a brittle autumn leaf. It's heavy in her arms, and even more breathtaking with gravity working in its favour, the pleated skirt falling so naturally, so elegantly.

Y/N couldn't hide a smile. She wanted to say thank you, but the words weren't coming.

It didn't really matter. Loki was watching the joy suffuse Y/N's face as though that alone was thanks enough. "If it makes you feel better," he added, "you can think of it as payment for posing for me; for letting me paint you. You'll have to sit still for a long time, are you sure you're okay with that? We'll take breaks---"

Still in a state of disbelief, Y/N shook her head, batting away his concerns, almost laughing at them. "I've been working since I could clutch a dishcloth. I welcome the break." Y/N returned her attention back to Loki, aware of the weight of the dress shifting in her arms as she turned to him. "Thank you. For this. Really---"

"Don't mention it. I would have gotten it made sooner but I didn't want to seem strange." Loki's thin lips had turned up into a sheepish smile---so out of place on his angular face. "I don't know how you put up with those scratchy uniforms." He plucked at Y/N's rough collar between finger and thumb. His tone was light, but there was a sadness behind his eyes. Y/N didn't catch it because she'd started gently folding the dress over one arm, but if she'd looked up she would have found a melancholy hue to his gaze.

...

Y/N could barely keep from hurling her uniform into a disorganised heap as she undressed in Loki's washroom. It felt so good to rid herself of it knowing that she's about to replace it with something that isn't as coarse; in every sense of the word.

She'd hung the dress on the door, next to one of the Prince's silky dressing gowns, and admired it as she removed each item of clothing. It really is breathtaking. The poor quality of her own clothes is heightened just by its presence, the crisp, hardened cotton scraping and scratching where, before, Y/N could (mostly) ignore it.

When Y/N was standing in nothing but her undergarments, she paused, chewing her bottom lip between her teeth. Her undergarments aren't really garments at all, just some simple briefs and a thick underbodice for modesty (and, in the winter; warmth). The briefs she saw no issue with, they could be left on, but the bodice would have to be removed.

This posed new problems in of itself; where servant's clothing is concerned, modesty and professionalism are the paramount interest. Their uniform is designed specifically to eliminate any hint of individual figure. In fact, Y/N was pretty sure that her drab, stiff dress was made to prevent her from looking like a living being at all.

The bodice exists mainly for this purpose as well; to hide and stifle any shape that Y/N's chest may have, to square her torso off into a non-discernible box.

Y/N has never worn anything that flaunts her shape, let alone suggests she has one. Ever. If she left her undergarments off there would only be a thin layer of material between her bare skin and...well, indecency.

But she couldn't very well keep the bodice on; it would be grossly visible around the neckline of the dress and generally give the whole thing a lumpy appearance. Y/N knew Loki wouldn't mind either way; he'd made it clear he only wants her to be comfortable. He could easily use a little artistic license to remove the lumps and bumps from the painting, and Y/N doubted he'd laugh at her for being shy.

She _is_ shy. Working-class women are not women, not in the same way ladies who'd usually wear this sort of dress are women. Working-class women's bodies are for, well, working; whether that be in a career, around the house, or birthing and feeding children. They do not get shown off, made to look appealing and beautiful. 

...

After a lot of contemplation, Y/N's underbodice joined the pile of her discarded uniform.


	19. Chapter 19

Getting into the dress took a little while because Y/N was terrified of breaking anything. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the obviously high-end material, it was that she didn’t trust _herself_ not to jam her leg into the skirt too hard, or her nails not to catch one of the mesh sleeves and push her whole arm right through it. Thus, she climbed into it like a lizard shedding its skin but in reverse; a lot of awkward shimmying and uncoordinated peeling.

When she'd settled in---leaving the back undone for now (she'd tackle that later)---Y/N raised her head to the vast mirror above the sink. She hadn't looked at herself as she'd been getting into the dress; she'd wanted to save it, like a big reveal at the end, for the first time in her life experiencing a slight hint of vanity. She has never been a largely vain person, although, perhaps that is down to the fact that, the way she sees it, she doesn't have anything to be vain about.

When she did raise her head, she didn't recognise herself.

Well, she did. If anything, she looks and feels more like herself than she ever has. That _is_ clearly her staring back from the glass, awestruck, lips parted, her whole expression a series of ‘O’s as she gazed at her reflection with wide-eyed wonder. That's _her chest_ , _her_ neck, _her_ hips, _her_ hair, the tight little bun atop _her_ head. But Y/N has never seen those features in this way before, so exposed, so accentuated...so colourful.

She looks alive.

The dress clings, all of it clings softly to the curves of Y/N's body, highlighting them, complimenting them, presenting them in a way no item of clothing she's ever worn has. She's used to drab dresses so stiff with starch they barely bend enough for her to lean over, let alone hint at her figure. But this dress...it's almost as though it's doing it on purpose, with a consciousness. Like it's taken a good long look at Y/N's form and is saying _'Yes, we'll emphasize this bit here'_ and _'This area is gorgeous, let's pay attention to that'._

After many minutes spent just gawking at herself, Y/N eventually moved her hands tentatively to her back to begin the tricky business of doing the thing up. She'd known it would be difficult as soon as she'd seen it; many complex strings of ribbon, weaved and knotted into a labyrinthine pattern that was pretty, as well as constructed to securely hold the dress together just right, giving it that perfect figure. Y/N had had to _undo_ the mass of ribbon to get into the dress, and she tried to conjure the memory of it now in her head and reverse it, then replicate it with her hands.

She managed a few knots, looping the ties clumsily into what she could only assume were the right holes. The ribbons kept slipping from her fingers like tens of tiny eels, the slick whispers of silk against the pads of her fingers seeming to tease her graceless attempts as they fell free just for the fun of it.

After several admirable minutes of stubbornness, Y/N rendered the feat impossible---on her own, at least. She can’t see what she’s doing, and the mirror is no help; throwing her reflection back the wrong way just to confuse her fumbling fingers.

 _'This is why upper-class women have ladies maids to dress them,’_ Y/N thought with a defeated, silent sigh. _She_ doesn't have a maid because she's an imposter, a poser, only _pretending_ to be part of this world. She has no one to help her figure out this (what is now a) tight tangle of dainty ribbons---

No one except Loki.

…

Humiliated, Y/N used both her hands to clutch the back of the dress together as though it's an open wound, and nudged the door with her foot. Bashfully, and with an uncomfortable heat scorching the tops of her ears, she found the prince waiting for her, lounged on a divan with a book spread neatly in one hand.

Y/N had removed her slippers to climb into the dress, and opted for leaving them off. Gowns like this are designed to make the owner appear to _sweep,_ not step, and Y/N knew her clumpy canvas slippers would all but erase its efforts. Yes, these types of dresses are crafted to be paired with flat, dainty little pumps or---if inside---in nothing at all.

Y/N doesn’t own any pumps, but she was not opposed to going barefoot. Her feet are one of the few parts of her body she has little to no qualms with exposing. Many people in the lower classes can not afford proper shoes, so it is not uncommon to see naked toes or bare ankles. Y/N herself had grown up in a pair of basic leather sandals handed down from her mother.

Plus, after many months of observing Loki bypassing shoes whilst he’s pottering about his chambers, Y/N was quite eager to give it a try herself; ndoubtedly it would be a vast improvement from the canvassy shuffling of her rigid, oversized slippers.

As she approached the prince, sprawled leisurely on a divan, Y/N’s bare soles touched the chilled marble with a soft sound, so silent it could barely be called a sound at all. She liked it, feeling the reassuring weight of the palace beneath her feet, and the cooling spread of the marble helped banish her blush as she gripped a little tighter at the back of her dress.

Despite her almost soundless approach, Loki’s ears pricked up as soon as Y/N left the washroom, his book falling, forgotten with a papery thud onto the floor. He cleared his throat, rising from his lazily stretched-out position, whole long, sinewy body suddenly taught like a spring. His piercing irises weren’t leaving Y/N's elegant silhouette, even to blink. He was smiling.

“Beautiful,” he muttered as Y/N came to a stop about a metre before him, dipping her head, skin prickling under his attention.

She has all of it---all of his attention---and the full force of it almost made her squint as though she’s looking into the sun. Loki couldn’t hide his gaze sweeping the length of her body now, lingering for a millisecond on the swell of her hips, following the dip of her waist, reaching her chest before he caught himself, dragging his gaze up to her face, his cheekbones dusted pink.

He may be a prince, but he’s also a man.

He's looking at her in a way she’d never seen in him before. It sent sensation skittering down the taught column of her spine. 

Any other man looking at her like that would have set Y/N’s nerves on edge, sounded alarm bells in her head. She has seen that look on shady men late at night, their narrowed glares following her like staved wolves.

This look, though, the one Loki is currently doing a poor job of hiding, isn't like that. It's more like the look _Y/N_ accidentally gives _him_ whenever he stretches and his shirt rises up a little to expose a white dash of his pale stomach.

“Thank you,” Y/N stuttered, two simple words and yet, with Loki’s eyes scorching into her like they were, she screwed up both of them.

"Is it comfortable?" He enquired with genuine care. He’d moved his hands to rest neatly behind his back as though he's observing a priceless piece of art and wants the security guard to know he doesn’t plan on touching it. “Does it fit okay?”

“It's perfect," Y/N beamed. "It's the most heavenly thing I've ever worn. I just can’t...the back. I can’t do it on my own.” She turned, presenting it to him shyly. Both of her hands were still clamped anxiously at the two pieces of fabric, even though she knew she'd have to remove them to let Loki fasten the dress. "Could you?"

Taking a breath, she released the material, exposing the long, wide column of bare skin. It stretched from that dip between her shoulder blades to the very bottom of the small of her back. 

Who had been the last person to see her shoulder blades? The two slight dimples either side of the base of her spine? Her mother, probably; back when Y/N was a babe in a bathtub, having her skin scrubbed with a wedge of carbolic soap.

“I’ll not sure I’ll be much help,” Loki chuckled bashfully, but he moved up behind Y/N all the same.

She felt him rather than heard him, the broad line of his shoulders stooped like angel wings as he took the two ribbons gently. “I assume it’s just like undoing it but the other opposite way,” Y/N suggested helpfully with a shrug in her voice.

Quietly: “I haven’t had much experience with _undoing_ dresses either.”

Y/N’s thoughts had wandered off into a sort of daydream---mentally sweeping imaginary palms over her body, observing the weight and brush of the heavy skirt about her hips, the crisp prickle of the sleeves---but at Loki’s last comment, she suddenly found herself paying attention.

Surly his many lovers would request his assistance when undressing? Y/N couldn’t imagine them wanting to shatter the mood by summoning a ladies-maid to the bedroom. Plus, why get a faceless servant to strip you of your clothes when you could have Loki’s dexterous, competent fingers easing off each garment?

Hoping Loki couldn’t see the blush trickling down her neck:

“I think it went in a sort of criss-cross pattern. You could try to follow any progress I’d made, but I think it’s just a big clump.” She laughed, a little one-syllable bubble from her chest, just to ease some of that tension that’s pooling in her abdomen.

Had she been wrong about Loki’s assumedly very active love life? Now that she thought about it---which felt odd after so long of trying _not_ to think about it---Y/N had never actually seen one of the prince’s many supposed lovers walk into, leave from, or simply inside Loki’s chambers. Or even any of their belongings. Not once had Loki asked Y/N to leave his company early because he’s going to be entertaining a lady friend. Nor had he ever mentioned, hinted at, or insinuated that he’d been with one whilst Y/N was away at the market or down in the servant’s quarters.

He and Y/N are roughly the same age. She remembered watching him blossom by her side from spindly child, to gangly adolescent, to mature, graceful adult. Well, not literally by her side. She’d just catch snatched glances at him during public addresses by Frigga or Odin, their sons flanking their sides, Loki small and shrinking back from the crowd, Thor proud and curiously interested in everyone’s smiling faces. So, Loki must have come of age around the same time Y/N did, which was not that long ago. She often forgets his---that the prince is not some wise old sage in a young man’s body. He hasn’t been around for much longer than Y/N, even if he seems like he has.

Which leads to the question: does he _have_ a love life yet? After all, Y/N herself hadn’t felt ready for the somewhat nerve-wracking world of sexual relationships until very recently. She’d barely been of age long enough to come across someone that _makes_ her feel ready.

And even then, she didn't feel ready with just anyone.

Just Loki.

She couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it had happened. Maybe there wasn’t one. She’d visualised that crux in her life as a sort of hole that she’d suddenly fall into---like, she’d catch sight of a strapping male as he does whatever it is strapping men do, and her body would suddenly flush with hormones all screaming _‘Take me’._

But that is not how it had transpired. There had been no sudden transition from girl to woman, no sexual awakening like a hefty slap in the face. No, instead it seemed to transpire secretly, somewhere at the back of Y/N’s mind in a dusty corner she never explores; like a conker left in a coat pocket and forgotten about. Each smile Loki gave her, every curling laugh, little mannerisms---etcetera---fed the little sapling, the prince inadvertently nourishing it with his general Loki-ness, until one day Y/N knew that if he asked her to bed she probably wouldn’t turn him down.

Y/N’s reverie, that was quickly charting into dangerous territory, was broken by several words tumbling onto her shoulder:

"You didn’t actually do as bad a job as you think” the prince chuckled, something like admiration mingling within the silky tone. “You did well managing to get it this far.”

A fast learner, he seems to have figured out what he’s doing, now, and picked up a quick, graceful rhythm. Softly, he began threading the ribbons at the base of the bodice, patiently easing them from any knots Y/N had made and looping them, arranging them as the dress-maker had designed. Every now and again he'd brush her skin---the back of a cool finger, a gentle thumb---and it didn’t help her efforts to banish the thoughts flooding into her brain like sweet honey.

It's a strange experience, Loki---someone---a man---a _prince_ \---dressing her. Loki is probably thinking the same thing because he said absently:

"I feel like your maid."

Y/N flushed, her self-consciousness swelling with every second of his time that the task was taking up. “I’ll practice tying it when I’m not wearing it, then one day I should be able to do it myself.”

Quietly: “You don’t have to.”

Y/N couldn't see his face but she knew him well enough to guess the dashes of his cheekbones were pink. “Thank you.”

...

Even if Y/N did manage to learn how to tie the dress herself, she wouldn’t want to make use of the skill. Loki---despite his lack of practice---proved to be more than competent, doing a better job at entwining the silky strands than Y/N would ever be able to manage.

She had braced herself for him to tug the ribbons tight, to shrink the circumference of her waist; use the dress to restrict it like a corset. But his nimble knotting and threading had reached midway up Y/N's back and she realised the moment would never come. He’d left the material loose and roomy, and continued to do so, fitting it _to_ her rather than trying to fit her to _it_.

When Loki stepped away, declaring his work finished, Y/N turned on the spot, watching the skirt flare out about her ankles, a joyful grin splitting the lower half of her face in two. How had she gotten this lucky? What magical thread of stars had lined up to gift her with such a life? Such a career? Such a friend?

Said friend waited patiently for Y/N to finish her twirling, watching her with quiet amusement, the corners of his lips just ghosting with a smile as she turned her body this way and that before one of the many mirrors lining his chamber walls. Loki had one arm crossed over his middle, the other leaning against it so the curl of his hand could prop up his pointed chin.

Eventually, Y/N noticed, and must have mistaken his posture for boredom because she blushed and cleared her throat, moistening her lips. “Have you decided where do you want me?” She gestured about the room then caught Loki’s coy smirk. “For the painting! I meant posing, where should I pose so you can---”

“I know,” he waved her off, that smirk still there, and something different, something new; a tint of red on both cheeks. Red, proper red, red like the scarlet sheen of a tomato.

But it was gone so quickly Y/N put it down to a trick of the light. All sorts of colours get reflected off of Loki’s alabaster skin. He’s like a china cup next to a stained glass window.

“I still don’t how I want the painting to be, yet,” Loki muttered thoughtfully, still with one hand supporting his head, but now he’d started pacing, alert and to attention rather than lounging back as if against an invisible wall. “When I paint, I tend to wait for a scene to present itself, rather than hunting about for something to paint," he explained, mainly talking to himself. 

Y/N enjoyed listening anyway, her curiosity hungry for anything he could teach her about the magical process that is art.

"I know I _want_ to paint you, but not _how_. Like when I drew that deer through the telescope. As soon as I saw it I knew I wanted to capture its likeness, but I had to wait an hour and a half before it took the pose I eventually sketched it in.”

Y/N chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She pictured Loki stooped over the vast machine in the other room, waiting patiently for inspiration to hit whilst the arms of the clock hacked away at time like miniature hammers. How long would it be before that same inspiration struck him for this painting? Y/N wondered. Not that she minded how long it took. She hadn’t agreed to be his muse for the finished product---although it will be breathtaking--- it was the _journey_ she was more interested in. The quiet, tranquil hours spent just his eyes on her, the damp dab of the brush, the casual conversation.

But he seems frustrated, and Y/N may have an inkling as to why. The screwed up piles of parchment peppered about his chambers are just one of the small clues to his perfectionist nature. He probably can’t bear the thought of having to leave his picture unfinished---whatever beauty he sees in Y/N uncaptured---when he has to move to the Vanir kingdom. He wants to begin it now, as soon as possible, before he can’t begin it at all.

Y/N has no idea how painting works, really, but after watching the prince do it she could make an educated guess. It's all very visual, with so many components it might be difficult for him to hold them all in his head without them spilling through his fingers like marbles. Maybe they could spark an epiphany; manufacture one, somehow? 

“How about you just get me to pose around each room and see what looks good?” Y/N suggested, hoping she was being useful not painfully dim.

…

Y/N spent the next few hours letting Loki arrange her in various rooms, on various pieces of furniture, in various positions. Although, the positions weren’t actually that varied; he seemed to favour the more relaxed poses, whether for Y/N’s benefit or because that was the atmosphere he was aiming for, she didn’t know. Y/N liked these poses, she felt comfortable with all of them, and believed she could easily hold each for as many hours as Loki may need. Plus, they were tasteful, and she silently thanked the heavens for this; not that she _had_ expected the prince to ask her to spread herself lewdly over a chaise lounge.

The clock struck Two and they still hadn’t found a pose or location that pleased them---and, by this point, it really was ‘them’ and ‘they’. Loki was as interested in Y/N’s input as he was his own, if not more so. Right at the beginning, when he’d suggested she try lounging on a divan, she’d shyly proposed resting one arm along the backrest; to give the whole thing a smooth, sweeping feel. Loki had replied with a smile:

“I don’t know whether to be proud of you for thinking of it, or concerned for myself because I didn’t.”

From then on, Y/N held no suggestions back and even began to take initiative, learning from the prince what would look good and what would not; what would make a pose work with her surroundings and set what kind of mood.

“How about I face this way, so my profile contrasts with the curtain?” She’d ask, demonstrating, and Loki would nod, his previously critical expression giving way to a pleased smile as though a few pieces were finally slotting into place.

However, only a few pieces would slot into place, never all of them, or enough of them to please the prince completely. Y/N didn’t mind, and did not take it personally; he reminded her again and again that it was not her fault. It was the _room’s_ fault, the _lighting’s_ fault, his _own_ fault that he couldn’t settle on a pose. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked me for a playlist for this story and all I can think of is one song: 'Affection' by Cigarettes After Sex.

They had reached the lounge when Loki declared it time to take a break. 

Y/N had left the carton containing Aasta’s toffee cake there, on a glass end table by the window, and he must have noticed Y/N’s gaze gravitating hungrily to linger on the squared-off corners of the box as if she hoped her eyes could eat through the cardboard. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Loki said after permitting Y/N to move. He’d had her sitting in an armchair, framed by the un-lit fireplace, and had been staring at her intently for about thirty-two seconds. 

He’d done this at a few of the more promising poses, and Y/N had quickly realised the amount of time the prince asked her to hold a stance was a good indication of how appealing he found it. Not because he’s analysing it---he’s not taking in the colours and the tones and the general aura of the scene. It’s more like he’s...waiting for something to happen. 

At first, Y/N had thought he’s waiting for  _ her _ to do something---although she wasn’t sure what. But then she realised he’s not waiting for her at all, rather, when a pose has potential, Loki thinks that bolt of inspiration might hit, and is just giving it enough time to arrive. 

Thirty-two seconds waiting for that eureka-moment was not bad, but there had been a pose---on a sofa back in the library---where Loki had asked Y/N to hold her position for  _ forty-eight _ seconds. 

Y/N hopped happily off the sofa to retrieve some crockery from the tea station, extending her arms over her head until she felt a few joints give a satisfying click. “Do what?” 

“The painting. If you’re bored---”

“I’m not bored,” Y/N cut in quickly, setting the plates down on the end table. They're green, and made of some sort of glass---or perhaps, more likely, crystal---giving them a misty, seafoam sort of transparent look. They remind Y/N of Loki's irises. "Honestly, I enjoy it." 

She began freeing the cake slices from their prettily-packaged prison. Aasta always seals each box with a stamp of hot wax, and Y/N enjoys the process of catching the underside with her nail and peeling it off. It looks like a candy itself, soft and shiny and the colour of maple syrup. Y/N has kept each one, just because it feels wrong to throw them away.

Loki pulled a chaise lounge up to where Y/N stood and flopped neatly onto its plush pillows, tucking his legs up below him as though he’s folding away a pair of wings. “Are you sure? I keep feeling as though I’m bossing you around.”

Y/N wondered briefly about pushing one of the plump armchairs over for herself, but the window seat looked more appealing, the view making up for what it lacked in comfort. She transferred Loki’s now loaded plate to his pale hands and settled herself into the little niche in the wall. “You’re not. I find it interesting; art is something I never thought I’d witness first hand, let play an active part in.”

“Isn’t it the working class that makes most of Asgard’s furniture, buildings, and instruments?” Loki pointed out, using the end of his finger to wipe up a dribble of toffee from his plate. He popped it in his mouth and he hummed in appreciation. 

It made all of Y/N’s atoms vibrate.

“I would have thought your family would have a few tile makers or blacksmiths or wood-carvers here and there. Are they not artists?”

Y/N turned this over in her head, then shrugged. “My family is in the  _ lower _ working class. We don’t really make things, we fix what is broken. Mother sews torn clothes for a small sum, and father fixes roofs on buildings.” 

A few strands of Loki's hair had come loose from being tucked behind his ear, and Y/N wanted to reach out and put them back. Maybe she would have done, had he not been over an arm's reach away. 

"I think fixing things counts as art. There's something beautiful about having enough patience and compassion to mend, rather than simply replace."

…

Y/N and Loki used to eat in the studio, hands pigment-stained, giving their fingers a chalky taste when they licked up stray frosting or scuffs of chocolate. 

Y/N liked  _ this _ , though, making use of a different room for once. There are so many, after all, and they are all so wonderfully decorated. Before, whilst caged in her uniform, she may have preferred to crouch in the messy studio to snack; she feels less out of place there, surrounded by other things that are imperfect and plainly practical. But now, with her sweeping dress flowing like an emerald waterfall from her spot by the window, her body framed by the sky, a rich dessert balanced on her lap and a delicate knife in one hand, Y/N almost felt like she belonged.

“Besides the studio, which room do you think you use most?” Y/N asked around a mouthful of toffee. It was unsalted and gummy and unfathomably good. Her curiosity in the prince's life had---until very recently---gone unsatisfied. Now she felt their relationship had reached a point where she could finally ask him questions. Of course, he'd made it clear she could ask him questions right from the beginning; but she still wasn't sure whether that had been some kind of test. There's always a sharp look in his eyes, as though cogs are turning quietly, right at the back of his mind. Y/N had seen that look before in the cats that hang around the kitchens hoping for scraps. You think they're just lounging, fast asleep on the front step, but then their ear will twitch and you'll realise they'd been alert and aware all along, never really asleep at all. 

Loki looked pensive as he contemplated his answer, probably sifting through multitudinous memories, all somewhat identical. Life can’t be very varied for a prince, Y/N had learnt early on. Especially not the youngest prince, whose days are not filled with training for the day when he will be king like his older brother. “Probably this one. I like the lighting so I often read in here.” He smiled. “You’re actually in my favourite seat.”

“Do you want to swap?” Y/N offered, although she didn’t even bother to stand because Loki would reply with---

“No, I’m quite happy here, thank you.”

A smirk twitched Y/N’s lip. “I knew you’d say that.”

This made him smile.

They spent the next few minutes in silence, dissevering neat lumps of their respected cake slices and letting them dissolve in their mouths. The cake is in layers---sponge, frosting, another wedge of sponge, and then more frosting, and Y/N watched with curiosity as Loki ate his successively.

“How are Aasta’s cakes so moist, even when we leave them in a box for several hours?” He asked, tugging Y/N out of her stupor. 

Y/N would have liked to give him the real reason, to say something clever---she had worked in a kitchen, after all, so should have picked up a few tricks. However, Ylva had never once made a cake, at least while Y/N was working under her, so the only tricks Y/N knew were how to peel a potato in under five seconds, and the phrase ‘there’s no such thing as too much salt’ (which she suspected to be apocryphal). 

So instead, after swallowing her mouthful, Y/N said seriously: “I think she’s a witch.”

Loki laughed, a little chuckle of amusement filling the air between them. “What gives you that idea?”

“Think about it; the palace chefs couldn’t even keep that lemon cake moist, and all you did was bring it from downstairs.” Y/N’s eyes had narrowed. “Plus...she knows things.”

Aasta had explained her uncanny detective abilities, putting them down to raising five daughters, but Y/N wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced she didn’t have some kind of magic stirring about in her veins as well. Perhaps elfin? That would explain the allure she seems to hold over almost everyone she meets. Y/N had never met an elf, but she’d heard that they’re more beautiful than the sun.

“Everyone knows things,” Loki pointed out, and Y/N shook her head.

“Yes, but Aasta knows  _ more _ things.” 

When the prince didn’t look convinced, she added, serious now: 

“She  _ could _ be a witch. After all, everyone in  _ your _ family are sorcerers.” 

Humouring her, Loki cocked one eyebrow. It gave him a smouldering sort of look, mischievous, and Y/N liked it very much, although it did make something inside her tingle most peculiarly. “Fair point. So, what would she be a deity  _ of? _ Pastries? And---how did you put it? Knowing things?”

Y/N used her cake knife to waggle it at Loki like she’d seen Ylva do at her so many times with a wooden spoon. “If you’d met her you’d know what I’m talking about. She knows about you, you know.”

“Of course she knows about me,” Loki said simply, leaning back in his seat. “ _ Everyone _ knows about me because, must I once again remind you, I am the youngest son of the  _ All-Father _ .”

“Yes, but she knows about  _ you.  _ To quote her, you’re 'lonely', and 'quiet'---”

“I’m not  _ actually _ so lonely anymore.”

“---And she knows that the cakes I buy are for you.”

This did seem to spark the prince’s attention because, like a startled hare, his spine straightened again, pale eyes widening as he looked up from his cake quickly. “She knows about us?”

“Well,” Y/N felt her cheeks heat. “Well, not us  _ specifically _ . She just knows the money I use for the cakes isn’t mine, and that I’m sharing them with a man. A man who she says is quiet and shy and not a people person.” She left out the part about Aasta implying Y/N is kind of in love with him. And the part about him liking her back.

Loki settled again, that dark dash on an eyebrow raising once more in a sarcastic mixture of disbelief and scorn. “Well, she is  _ right _ , but that doesn’t mean she’s a  _ witch _ .”

Seeing she wasn't going to win, Y/N huffed: “ _ You _ look like a witch.” Letting her shoulder blades fall back enough to bump against the solid pane of the window.

She’d been teasing, but Loki's head tilted to the side. 

“In what way?”

Surprised, Y/N ceased dragging her fork about her plate to collect the last scuffs of cake. The prince was watching her with an expression she didn’t recognise, and even though she couldn’t read it, she knew immediately that she didn’t like it.

“Your hair,” Y/N gestured at it, all loose curls the colour of night. She’d raised her joshing tone a little, trying to make it clear she’s joshing. “And your eyes. I feel like you can see into my head sometimes; as if you’re reading my thoughts as they pop up.”

This did make Loki laugh, and he raised one hand self-consciously to cover his mouth. Relaxing back into his seat: “Rest assured, Y/N, I can do many things, but reading minds is not one of them.”

“Are you sure?” Y/N had finished her snack, and placed the empty crockery down on the table. She’d been tempted to lap up the last stains of toffee with her tongue (on the plate, not the table), but thought better of it at the last minute. “Maybe you just haven’t figured out how?”

“A valid point. I’ll make an attempt.”

A smile turned up Y/N’s lips as she watched the prince make a show of trying to look thoughtful, his eyes searching her like they’re seeking for a weak spot to bore into her head. If she didn’t know he was playing with her, she would have been tempted to shield her face with her hands, just in case he actually managed to pinch a thought from her skull.

But then a prickle of fear skittered up her back as Loki’s lips actually spread in a victorious smirk.

“You were thinking about licking your plate.”

Y/N blinked, her breath catching in her throat. It made his grin double, exposing his teeth at her horrified expression.

“Don’t look so scared, I’m joking.” Casually: “It doesn’t take a psychic to know you enjoy quality food.” He’d finished his own dessert by now, and drew the crockery to his mouth, dragging his pink tongue across it as Y/N had wanted to do. He’d stretched his narrow legs out lazily along the length of the chaise lounge, reclining, and Y/N almost felt like chastising him for his ungentlemanly practices. 

Still trying to soothe her bristled nerves, she let out a nervous, relieved little laugh. “For a prince, you have a piteously small compilation of manners.”

Through a smirk: “For a commoner, you seem to have a surplus of them.”

“I must have gotten your share.” 

“I wish you hadn’t.” 

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying I’m uptight?” 

“No, no, no.” He smiled, that same smile he had just before he tipped the bucket of water over the other day. “Not uptight.  _ Prim _ , yes.” 

“That’s unfair, you forget that if I’m anything other than  _ prim _ I’ll get fired.” 

“Not now, you won't. So why don’t you relax?” He’d said it casually, a silken drawl, all hooded eyes and amused curling grin, but there was a challenging edge to his tone. 

As if to exaggerate the fact that niceties and formality really aren’t necessary, he gestures at his own more-than comfortable posture. 

His ease irritated Y/N in a way she didn’t understand. He can just  _ lay  _ there, all sprawled out like a cat soaking up the sun. He can do that without a nagging little voice in his head (that sounds oddly like Alfdis) making him feel as though he’s doing something heinous and evil. He can just…unwind. 

Y/N crossed her arms. “Force of habit.” 

“Force of habit  _ and _ because you’re prim. It’s in your blood.” 

“It is  _ not _ .” 

“It is. You’re terrified of doing something wrong.” 

“Only because I’ll get---”

“Fired, yes, you mentioned. I think it’s more than that, though. You’re afraid of upsetting everyone. Alfdis, me, your parents---" He shifted onto his front, crossing his arms neatly over the armrest and setting his pointy chin on them, giving Y/N a smile. "You don’t do what you want.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean you  _ want _ to do things, but you don’t  _ let _ yourself do them because you’re scared of how other people will react.” He’d said it so simply, laid out Y/N’s entire personality stark and bare before her, so easily, so effortlessly. 

It is true, all of it is true, and yet Y/N still blinked in surprise. 

Her gaze hardened. “I can be spontaneous. I can not care about what anyone else thinks.”

Irritatingly dismissive: “No, you can’t.”

More firmly: “Yes, I can.” Y/N isn't angry at  _ him _ , she’s angry at herself. All those missed opportunities, all those years spent cowering under other people’s gaze. And the worst part was; she didn't have to. If she just---metaphorically, of course---improved her posture, they'd have to look  _ up _ at her rather than peer down their nose like she’s a stubborn stain or an irritating child. 

“Lick the plate, then. Let your hair down. Curse and raise your voice and make lewd jokes and slouch when you sit.” 

Y/N’s lips pinched themselves into a tight little knot, Loki’s only spreading wider. “But I don’t  _ want _ to do those things.”

“Yes you do,” he stated frankly, examining the back of one of his hands. The tendons slipped smoothly below his skin as he flexed his fingers and he watched them disinterestedly. “But you’re too scared to.”

Y/N huffed, her shoulders all bunched up by her ears. He thinks she’s... _ boring?  _ Scared? Scared of what he---what  _ anyone _ thinks? When he looks at her does he see a quaking, snivelling servant so eager to please she’d forgotten to develop a personality? 

“I am  _ not.”  _

And with that, vehemently, Y/N shoved herself deeper into the window seat, her spine curving in a lazy, compressed arc, legs stretched out to take up all the space she’d been told a woman should never invade. 

Before Loki even had a chance to look startled, both of her hands came up to unfasten the tight knot of a bun perched at her crown, grabbing the pins that held it in place and dragging them free, her hair falling in a disorganised cascading of strands. 

Mouth pursed, Y/N dropping the pins onto the table between herself and the prince with a metallic clink. 

There was a silence. 

Then Loki smiled. "That's it." 

…

“That’s what?” Y/N asked, her tone giving away the fact that she was still slightly nettled. Loki isn’t nettled at all, he’s the kind of person who you could shout at for half an hour and his voice would remain as level as a still lake.  It makes Y/N feel like a petulant teenager, her temper all wan and thin, while he just lays there, serene and cool. 

She considered pulling her limbs back towards her centre, straightening her back and hurriedly scrambling to hide her exposed locks---

But the prince is staring at her with a gaze as sharp as a whetted blade, making it incredibly difficult to move. “That pose. That’s it, the one we’ve been looking for.”

Bafflement scribbled itself all over Y/N’s face. “ _ This _ pose?” She gestured at her posture, almost slumped like a bag of flour, legs kicked so wide she’s thankful for the generous length of her skirt. If she were a young boy she’d be rapped on the knuckles for insolence. If she were a young girl she’d---well, she doesn’t know what would happen; no one she knew had ever dared to test it. “You know I was going for arrogant indifference, right? We were  _ arguing _ .” 

“Yes, and it was very amusing,” Loki’s lip curled and Y/N was tempted to stick her tongue out at him. “But we don’t seem to be very good at it; after all, arguments are supposed to cause problems, not solve them.” 

In a tone laced with heavy disbelief: “But  _ this _ pose?”

Loki tipped his head to the side. “What’s wrong with it? Is it too uncomfortable to hold?”

“No, it’s the  _ opposite _ , that’s my point. It’s too comfortable, it’s---it’s almost vulgar. For a woman, anyway; I look like---”

“A princess.”

There was a lot going on in Y/N’s head at that moment, but a choked little “What?” was all she managed to say.

Calmly, Loki elaborated: “You look like a princess. Relaxed yet assertive. Like you know you can do what you want, and you’re taking advantage of the fact.”

Y/N just stared at him, his demeanour having shifted from laid-back to interested. He’d sat up now, and swung his legs down to plant his bare feet on the floor, one pale hand curled before his mouth so he could run his thumbnail thoughtfully over the thin line of his bottom lip. 

“I understand the window,” Y/N spelt out, still thinking him to be slightly deranged. 

Had he become desperate, so just...settled?  _ Pretended _ to have been hit by a bolt of inspiration, just so they wouldn’t have to go through the whole tedious charade of searching for a pose again? 

No, Y/N doesn’t think so. She doubted he’d be able to fake that look; the glazed over, critical stare of someone carrying out mental calculations. She could see his pupils, swelled wells of ink, outlining her, flicking about and lingering on her dress, the window, her hands---probably mentally estimating the ratios of pigments he’ll need to create those same colours on canvas. 

“It makes a good frame," she continued, "the contrast of the sky, my dress flowing from the seat and onto the floor---etcetera---”

The prince’s stare cleared, his attention settling back on the present as he absorbed Y/N’s words. 

“---but the pose itself? It’s...” She trailed off, the sentence pittering out. It’s not that she didn’t have a word to stick on the end of it, it’s that she had too many. It’s  _ brassy _ and  _ brash _ and  _ audacious _ and makes her look…

Like a princess. Loki is right, because when Y/N shoved herself into a nonchalant slouch, she’d just been mirroring Loki’s own spread-out, relaxed, sprawling attitude. She’d soaked up, collected, and noted---all by accident, of course---the prince’s little mannerisms, his way of lounging about his quarters, and thrown it back at him. So, yes, in this dress, in the royal palace, mimicking the attitude of a privileged son of the king; Y/N  _ does _ look like a princess. 

“It’s perfect,” Loki assured. There’s that look again. That one Y/N can’t read. “You look like you own these chambers and everything in them.”

...

Y/N waited while Loki darted off to fetch his easel and painting materials from the studio, allowing herself a private little blush while she’s alone. 

Her hair is down. 

A man had seen her with her hair down---a  _ prince _ . If anyone else found out, she’d be fired for sure, and perhaps fined for dishonour to the crown. 

But she’s safe here. Loki would never tell, and there’s no way anyone else could ever find out. 

It feels...pleasant. Usually, Y/N is only blessed with the relief from that constant tugging sensation at her scalp at the end of the day, just as she climbs into bed. But now the roots of her hair are free, each strange hanging slack and...unnoticeable. It hadn't occurred to her that one could exist without discomfort. She'd assumed it's as natural and inevitable as the rains, or snow atop a mountain. A part of life. 

And slouching---where has  _ slouching  _ been all these years? She feels as though every muscle in her body is simply melting into the gentle curve of the window seat, each bone mellowing to liquid honey. 

The prince feels this way all the time? No wonder his features spend most of their days hanging in an easy-natured, amicable smirk. Y/N would be constantly smirking too if she was permitted to sit however she wishes wherever she wishes. 

It’s fascinating, she contemplated, how much your posture can influence your mood---influence everyone  _ else’s _ mood. Loki seems to have the ability to dominate a space just by simply being in it, and Y/N had never understood how. She understood now; it’s the way he sits. The way he stands, the way he holds himself. If you can slouch with your legs spread without anyone daring to scold you for it, you’re probably not a force to be reckoned with. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my shitty descriptions of cake; I've never eaten it. 😂


	21. Chapter 21

Loki returned, art supplies bundled into his long arms, and set about propping the easel upon its spindly legs and arranging trays of pigments and pots of paintbrushes over all the flat surfaces in his immediate vicinity. 

Y/N watched him with amused fascination, admittedly glad he had something other than her to occupy his gaze. With every passing second, self-consciousness dug its claws a little deeper, the temptation to correct her posture and wrangle hair back into its usual bun growing ever stronger. Pushing it away, Y/N turned her attentions back to the prince, how setting down three jars of water on the floor by his feet. 

He’d been holding them precariously in one hand by hooking his long fingers under the rims, but they looked even more vulnerable on the ground. Y/N wanted to caution him about knocking them over, but she knew he’d just laugh at her, so instead, she asked curiously:

“When you painted the scene at the market place, how did you get all this stuff down there?” 

“I didn’t,” Loki perched on the lip of the chaise longue, then lifted himself again so he could drag it forwards by a fraction of an inch. “I rested the canvas on my legs and loaded a pallet with paint before I left. I added a lot of the detail from memory once I got back here.” Distractedly: “I could do that with this painting, if you like, so you don’t have to pose for so long.” He met Y/N’s eyes, then, his dark hair having fallen like two curtains either side of his face. “I’m so familiar with your features I could just about manage from memory.”

Raising one eyebrow and pushing her lips into a pretend moody pout: “Is my face becoming tedious?” 

Y/N couldn’t see Loki’s answering smile because, seemingly content with the nest he’d assembled for himself, he’d taken his place behind the white rectangle of his canvas. She heard his chuckle, though, and a drawling:

“Quite the contrary.” One of his pale hands plucked a slim stick of charcoal from the table by his left knee, and the satisfying, abrasive sound of rough sketching filled the room. “I feel that---with you as my muse---this will be one of my most impressive works.” 

Y/N gave an incredulous laugh. “Very funny. _ ” _

The prince’s head poked out from one side of the canvas, his brow knitted. “I wasn’t trying to be.” He disappeared again, the scraping starting back up as he dragged the charcoal about over the expanse of blank material. 

Not knowing how to reply to that, Y/N simply said nothing, and turned back to concentrating on holding her pose in the window seat; a feat that proved to be more difficult than she’d previously anticipated. 

What had drawn Loki to this pose, in particular, was its nonchalant, care-free nature. Thus Y/N understood the importance of keeping her muscles slack and her expression insouciant. However, it is very tricky to  _ remain _ insouciant and nonchalant when you have a very attractive man’s crystalline eyes tracing your body every couple of seconds. Each time Y/N felt herself finally settling, he’d glance at her again---at the angle of her elbow, or the curve of her cheek---and her stomach would curl up like an autumn leaf. 

“By the way…” Loki’s voice drifted out from behind the canvas again, the scuff of his sketching ceasing. He leaned to the left, so Y/N could see his soft smile. “I’m flattered. That you feel comfortable enough with me to let your hair down. Both figuratively and literally.”

A heat dribbled down Y/N’s neck and pooled around her exposed collarbones. She had been waiting for the prince to bring that up. She’d tensed every time the breeze from the window brushed a strand of hair against her face and reminded her that she’s---in a way---somewhat naked. Y/N had thought the first man to see her with her hair down---besides her father, of course---would be her future husband.

Some small section of her anxious mind had half hoped Loki wasn’t aware of the significance. After all, it is customary for  _ upper _ -class women to wear their hair down, so maybe the prince would think nothing of it?

But he’s too sharp  _ not _ to know. That’s why he said gently: 

“If you ever feel uncomfortable you can put it back up.”

Y/N found her head shaking, her hair brushing about her shoulders. “If it’s all right with you...I’d rather leave it down.” 

...

And so, once again, Y/N’s life entered a new tier of comfort. 

Each morning she would stroll down to the market for Loki’s pigments, sit with him in the studio for several hours preparing them, and then pose for the rest of the day, taking breaks for snacks and to stretch her legs. Loki even allowed Y/N the privileges of his washroom, so she wouldn't have to keep struggling out of her dress and into her uniform to use the servant's restroom down the hall.

Loki painting her became Y/N’s favourite time of day, his eyes only on her, and she missed it sorely on weekends when she wasn’t required to work. 

The hours spent in the prince's plush, cushy chambers had begun to have the rather irritating effect of highlighting just how drab the hours spent  _ away _ from them really are. Descending the stairs to the servants quarters has started to make Y/N feel like a mole, navigating dank tunnels into the soil so deep even the sun can't find them. Y/N had never before been susceptible to bouts of claustrophobia, and yet---in recent weeks---she's had to escape to the courtyard for some air on several occasions, feeling stifled by the low walls and narrow slips passed off as windows. Her body craves light like a flower swamped in shade, and, curiously, she's found herself particularly drawn to height. Ground-level is busier than she remembers, the servant's quarters alive and churning like a beehive. She longs for the muted silence of Loki's chambers, far off from the everyday scrabble that is real life. 

Her free time has also begun to pose a new challenge she never would have anticipated; amusing herself when she is not working.

The working week used to leave Y/N’s bones withered and aching like trees exposed to harsh winds. Saturday and Sunday were forty-eight hours of sleep-riddled recovery; time to rebuild parts of her that had been broken from five days of hard labour. 

But now the hardest labour she experiences is climbing the multitudinous staircases to Loki’s quarters. 

One Saturday, Y/N had found herself slipping into consciousness at her usual time, the late-morning light trickling through the narrow window above her bed and staining her grey sheets a crisp white. At first, she’d sat up with a languid stretch, excited for the day ahead. The market place would be humid with rich scents, the colours vibrant and illuminated by beams of sun. Loki’s chambers would be bright too, each sweeping window displaying panoramic views of the kingdom as she and the prince pass lazy words back and forth, their hands paint-stained and clothes paint-scuffed. 

But then the realisation had hit her like a hefty slap on the cheek; it’s Saturday. 

Disgruntled, Y/N had flopped back onto the mattress with a malcontent frown and tried to catch the tail-end of the sleepiness quickly disappearing in the distance. 

But she wasn’t tired. She hasn’t been tired for a long time. Y/N’s time off is no longer an opportunity to snatch as much sleep and rest as she can possibly hold, but an opportunity to...do something else. 

Frustrated, Y/N swung her legs out of bed to start the day, but she wasn’t sure what exactly she could fill the day  _ with _ . What does one do with a day off? She posed this question to Loki as she sat sprawled in the window seat the following Monday. 

“Your whole life is a day off,” she’d said. “What do you do when I’m not here?”

“Hobbies,” he’d said simply. “Find things you enjoy and pursue them.” 

Y/N blew a little laugh through her nose. “What? Like playing the lute?” 

Loki tilted his head at her, not that she saw from behind the canvas. “Do you  _ enjoy _ playing the lute?”

“I've never even touched an instrument. I can’t  _ afford _ a lute, that was my point. The working class doesn’t typically do things they enjoy. We’re too tired. Usually.” 

“Not all hobbies are expensive, Y/N.” The prince leaned out to stare fixedly at her left arm. He seemed to not be able to get the curve of her wrist right, because he’d been staring at it, sketching, and then staring again for the past twenty minutes. “Most of the art I create is with charcoal sticks; you can get several for under a penny at the market.” 

“I can’t draw,” Y/N dismissed quickly with a wave of her hand like a queen flapping away an irritating servant.

This made the corner of Loki’s lip twitch with amusement. “No one is  _ born  _ with the ability to draw, you have to teach yourself.” 

their conversation fell into a natural lul as the prince’s attention narrowed on getting that one line of Y/N’s forearm right. She held it still for him and turned his words over a few times in her head. If anyone could be taught to draw, then why not give it a go? It’s not like she has anything better to do. She’d spent the previous two days wandering aimlessly around the kingdom, at least having a stab at sketching would be productive in some way.

So the next day at the market Y/N picked up some charcoal sticks and parchment with the loose change building up in her pocket like metallic disks of fungus. 

There is no stall for art supplies, she discovered after an embarrassing amount of time spent searching for one. For some reason, in her mind she’d built up a mental image of a table set out like a miniature version of Loki’s studio; pots of brushes here and there, thick notebooks bound in heavy leather stacked in towers---

In reality, artists seem to need to visit several different stalls to get the paraphernalia they require. 

The first Y/N came across was a man selling sketchbooks, but they weren’t piled up in disorganised towers like Loki’s. This man kept them on shelves in tight rows, their spines lined up like the neat hairs of his trim little moustache. Y/N’s gaze slid longingly over the more high-end books; their soft covers and tidy pages making them the more appealing choice, but she knew they were nowhere near suitable for her first attempts at art. No doubt she’d be tearing out a lot of pages before she manages to produce anything worthy of keeping, and the pretty little book would be ruined. Therefore, Y/N settled for the cheapest in the row; several hundred sheets glued roughly with resin at one end, which cost her so little she bought two, just to be safe. 

Charcoal sticks turned out to be much more complicated than Y/N had anticipated. 

“They’re graded, you see,” the store owner explained, probably noticing Y/N’s baffled expression. She was a willowy, stretched out sort of woman with long, matted hair and dusty black smudges littering her tawny skin. The only thing standing between her and a life of nomadic bohemianism, Y/N thought, is time. “The higher the number the softer the mark, Bs being the softest and Hs being the hardest.

Y/N’s eyebrows remained several millimetres below her hairline. The stall was covered in rows and rows of charcoal sticks, some so thin it's a wonder they haven't snapped like a brittle bone, and others so thick they looked more like lumps of ordinary coal you use to line a fireplace. However, many were close to identical in breadth, and yet Y/N had a sneaking suspicion they differ greatly in some way.

“The softer the mark, the blacker it is. See?” The store owner took up one of the sticks from a section labelled ‘9B’ and drew it carelessly across a piece of test parchment. The trail was so condensed it looked almost fluffy. Like a long, wiggly caterpillar. It was cute, but not at all what Y/N was looking for; every page of her sketch pad would end up coated in nothing but a haze of amorphous black dust.

“Which one do you need for just...you know---” Y/N made a gesture, miming the motion of drawing a little doodle over her palm, “---normal sketching?” 

The store owner rubbed her jaw with one hand, leaving a graze of grey on her chin like a little thundercloud. “It depends on what you want to sketch.”

Eventually, Y/N left the stall with a packet with the number five on the lid, and a letter B, which was apparently somewhere in the middle of the charcoal-stick rainbow of softness. If Y/N wanted to do some shading, she was ‘very welcome to come back and try out number eight’ but Y/N didn’t think she’d be ready for anything above a six any time soon. 

…

When Y/N arrived at Loki’s quarters, he immediately noticed the added bulges in her tote bag, and guessed it contained more than the usual boxes of pigment and scrumptious cakes. He hovered around it like a cat hunting through the groceries for food when Y/N placed it on the table, plucking the cotton with one finger. 

“You bought something.” 

Y/N had disappeared into the bathroom to change into her dress, already eager to feel the comforting grip of its velvety material. She misses it when she’s not wearing it, the loss aching like the stump of a lost limb. “You’re very astute,” she teased delicately through the door, knowing the prince was smiling on the other side. 

“I was under the impression you were morally against buying things.” 

“Quite the contrary,” Y/N answered, the set of her shoulders finally loosening as she slipped her arms into the gown's delicate mesh sleeves. They remind her of the veins in a leaf, she contemplated. “I love buying things, I just can’t usually afford them.” 

She left the washroom and Loki stepped behind her automatically, his slender fingers gravitating to the back of her dress to fasten it with well-practised dexterity. 

“So what did you buy? If you don’t mind me asking.” As he looped and knotted ribbons, Y/N reached up to take the pins from her bun. The prince still watched her hair fall about her shoulders with curious fascination, despite having witnessed it many times before. 

He released her, and Y/N stowed the pins in her tote, and brought out the blocks of parchment and packet of charcoal sticks, holding them out, for some reason feeling suddenly shy and childish. 

Loki has spent his entire life honing his craft, and she’s here suddenly deciding---on a bored whim, no less---to give it a try. She feels like she’s insulting him and everything he stands for. Maybe she should have dropped her new art supplies off at the servants quarters first and only mentioned it to him if she turns out to be any good?

However, the narrow line of Loki's lips broadened into an unmistakable smile when he put two and two together. "You're going to draw?" 

“I’m going to try to. I'm taking your advice about getting a hobby. This is the only one I could afford.” A piteous excuse, and Loki’s face fell. 

“Does passion not at least play a little part?” 

Surprised, Y/N’s cheeks heated. Passion plays a larger part than he'd ever know. He'd inspired her with his talent and prowess, and now, like a child dressing up in her mother's clothes, Y/N is trying to mimic him. Maybe he'd be flattered? “Yes. I want to be able to do what you do, drawing what I see, turning thoughts into physical matter." She rubbed one of her bare feet against her ankle as though she's being chastised. "It feels wrong, though, trying to copy you. Like I’m insulting you by ever thinking I’ll ever be---”

“If you say ‘that good’ I’m going to tip another bucket of water all over these nice clean floors,” Loki warned, straying purposefully to a nearby table. He sat down in one of the chairs and kicked the other out with his foot. 

Obediently, Y/N took a seat, even though she didn’t know what they were doing. Usually, they’d proceed to the studio now, to prepare the pigments she’d bought that morning from Frode. Loki had started painting the walls into his portrait of Y/N, which required a special gold pigment that looked what could only be described as magical, and she was eager to watch its metamorphosis into paint. 

"As I said," Loki began, taking Y/N's sketchbook and setting it in front of her, "no one is born with the ability to produce art, which means it takes practice. However, it also means that  _ anyone _ can learn, if they're dedicated enough." 

"I am dedicated," Y/N said quickly, feeling more and more like a child by the minute. He's going to teach her? Sitting up a little straighter, Y/N shuffled her chair with a grating of oak and marble closer to the prince's side. She has never received a proper lesson before, in anything, and the privilege of bettering herself felt sweet in her chest. 

He looked sideways at her through the corner of his eyes, a faint smile playing on his narrow lips. "I believe you. However, you must understand that even after years and years you will still make mistakes." 

That sentiment is true for many things, Y/N thought as Loki began freeing a charcoal stick from the box labelled with a number five. He peeled off the wax seal with the nail of his thumb, then tipped one of the slender black rods into his palm. 

"Art is not like theatrics or music. You don't have notes that you have to find on strings, or words you have to remember already written out for you. There's no right or wrong, there's just...whatever you want there to be."

Y/N mulled this over as the prince transferred the charcoal to her hand. "But how will I know if a sketch is finished, if there's no right or wrong?"

Loki shrugged. "It depends on what you want to sketch."

Y/N huffed. "I wish people would stop saying that."

...

Loki spent several hours introducing Y/N to the basics of drawing, showing her how to hold your hand just above the parchment so you didn’t ruin your work by leaning on it, then how to keep circles neat and even, and  _ then _ how to construct larger shapes from those circles. 

Rarely having a need to write, let alone draw, Y/N’s first attempts were clumsy and juvenile at best, her lines shaky as if the charcoal was painfully squeezing marks from itself rather than being dragged across the page. Loki explained patiently that it would take time to build up the required muscles, watching her struggle with amusement he didn't even try to hide.

Despite her gross incompetence, Y/N was not disheartened and rarely let her discouragement get the better of her. Every metaphorical block they ran into, Loki would slide the parchment to his side of the table and demonstrate how to bypass it, Y/N’s eyes following his slick strokes, the smooth competence having an almost soporific effect on her psyche. 

…

Only when Y/N’s hand began to ache, and their palms were stained as black as the night did they move on to their usual agender. The gold pigment proved to be as wonderful as Y/N had imagined it to be, the finished paint like someone had taken Odin's crown and turned it to liquid.  When it was prepared, Y/N and Loki progressed to the lounge where Y/N took up her usual position on the window seat, and the prince arranged himself behind his canvas. 

As they converse, Loki's voice flows from behind it, now growing thick with paint and muffling his silken words, the only parts of him visible being the long column of his legs and occasionally a hand reloading a brush with paint. Infrequently he’ll lean out to give Y/N some sort of expression---usually that trademark curling of lip---but mercifully, the colourful art supplies he’s surrounded by softens the effect. 

It's easier for Y/N to pose for him when he looks like a painter, not a man. 

Most of the time he’s a painter; his eyes clear and calculating, features drawn together in poignant contemplation or a thoughtful frown as he estimates distance, figures out colour ratios, etcetera. 

However, there are some moments when he looks like a man, and they make the nonchalant mask Y/N pulls over herself slip metaphorically sideways. His face will go all soft and his eyes glazed, like he’s staring at a sunset or admiring the ocean in the moonlight. Sometimes he’ll smile. He’ll look at her, and she won’t know what he’s thinking.

She just knows it’s not about paint.

It's not that Y/N doesn't like Loki looking at her like that. In fact, its rather pleasant---even Arne hadn't looked at her like that. It's a friendly sort of gaze, and it sets butterflies off in her torso, their dusty wings tickling the underside of her ribs. 

However, it does make her blush an awful lot, so, to fight off the waves of pink his gentle smile sends pooling at her cheeks Y/N asks questions.  These seem to act like little droplets of water being flicked in the prince's face because his gaze will return to its transparent, crystalline self, and he’ll go back to dabbing paint onto the canvas before him.

Thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind her interrupting his stupors, and never appears to grow tired of Y/N's inquisitive probing. He answers each query with amiable patience, perhaps even relishing in her attention. 

“How long does it take to dry?"

"Several hours, usually. It depends how thick the layer is."

"Can you paint over it when it's wet, or will the colours mix?"

"They'll mix, but sometimes that's what I want them to do. Some people prefer to wait for each layer to dry before adding the next, but I like how wet paint can be blended together. It makes the whole picture flow more easily."

"Does the charcoal show through the paint?"

"Yes, at first, but you need to use a few layers anyway to keep the colours vibrant so they tend to get covered up after a while." 

One question Y/N had asked him---not whilst she was posing, but afterwards, when she strayed over to take a customary look at the progress he’d made---was:

"Do you always leave the face until last?"


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any mistakes, had to do quickly, will check tomorow

Indeed, the painting was coming along by this time, the majority of the stretched cotton canvas smothered under at least several layers of paint---besides the little patch representing Y/N's face. Her skin tone had been set down, a simple block of colour, and then left; the rest of the image built up in increasing detail while that little section north of Y/N's neck remained naked and plain.

It was almost unsettling; seeing herself without a face.

The experience of seeing herself _at_ _all_ is still somewhat disconcerting, especially in her new decadent gown. The majority of Y/N's life has been spent utterly void of regarding her own reflection; besides in the miniature slab of tarnished glass that constitutes the servant's washroom mirrors. And, of course, the burnished gold floors of the palace do have a habit of throwing Y/N's image back at her as she navigates her way between her and Loki's quarters. However, neither are a very reliable source if you want to see what you really look like; one warping and flecking her features with ugly smudges, and the other making her look like a face on a coin.

As of late, she's found herself surrounded by her own crystal clear reflection more and more every day---the prince's painting, his washroom mirror---and she doesn't really know what to make of it.

Loki's portrait of her differs from the looking glass in his washroom, obviously; the elegantly placed sweeps and dabs of paint giving it a romantic, soft appearance rather than the mirror's crisp, accurate depiction. However, both _are_ images of Y/N, face or no face, romanticised or not. The sensation may be strange, staring back at herself, and yet, she can feel some distant part of her psyche warming to it. As a lower-class citizen whose entire career has been in the service industry, it's easy to forget you exist. But Y/N has a reflection now, she has a physical body that someone can see clearly enough to replicate in the form of art.

Never before has she felt so solid, so present.

She felt this way as she stood at the prince's side, both of them staring thoughtfully at that patch of bare paint where Y/N's profile should be. It's framed by her hair, each strand catching and throwing back light from the window behind, its vibrancy and intricacy only heightening the simplicity of that bland block of colour.

Loki said nothing for several seconds, just rubbed his chin, his index finger leaving a scuff lime green paint across the angular line of his jaw.

Without thinking, Y/N reached out and grazed the pad of her thumb over it, collecting up the pigment and wiping it onto a messy rag on the table.

His face had felt just as cool under her touch as his hands, as if he'd just been outside for a long walk before the sun was up. He turned his head to give Y/N a grateful smile, pulling himself from his rivery. If he minded that Y/N had touched him so intimately, he didn't show it.

"No, not usually," he said after clearing his throat, "I'm just not sure about the expression."

For a second, Y/N forgot she'd asked him a question.

She wanted to touch his face again.

He's clean-shaven but there's still that slight hint of masculine stubble somewhere below his skin; like gritty grains of sand caught between two pages in a book.

She followed his gaze to the painting, his concentration resting on that blank bit where Y/N's face should be.

"I did have an expression in mind...but it's difficult to fake."

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, although she knew what he meant, and it made her feel like she'd been walking down a set of stairs and suddenly missed a step. Posing lazily while he paints her is one thing. Holding a specific expression, though---arranging her features in a particular way and then keeping them there---is something else altogether.

"I mean I know the expression the picture should have, I just don't know how we could..." he trailed off, waving a hand nonchalantly then resting his elbow on his knee, propping his head up at his chin.

"You could tell me what you want me to do and I'll try to do it, but I've never been very good at acting. I broke a plate once in the kitchens, and I could have just said it was like that when I got there, but Ylva took one look at me and I confessed almost immediately."

Loki chuckled. "Well, Ylva is scary, I think even Father would quake under her interrogation. What I meant was, I don't think this look _can_ be faked."

"Well, what look was it?"

"Remember when you were cleaning and you found one of my drawings?"

Snidely: "Back when I used to work for a living?"

The prince elected to ignore that. "It's that look you had when I walked in. Before you noticed me. And you did it again when you first tried jam, and then again when you looked through the telescope." He paused, riffling through his mind for the right words, waving a slender hang vaguely as if that would help summon them.

Then he said slowly, like he's pulling them out of a box one by one: "Sort of... curious and excited---almost shocked---mixed with...disbelief."

Y/N pressed her lips together. "That's very specific."

"Exactly. Do you think you could replicate it?" He looked up at Y/N and she thought it was very bizarre indeed, seeing the top of his head. Few people had, probably. His hair is smoothed back over his skull, the curvature making it look like the breast of a crow.

Dragging her mind back to the task at hand, Y/N tried to imagine the expression Loki wanted. She tried to picture what she must have looked like on those occasions---and attempted to tug her features into the same sort of exclamation of awe, hauling her eyebrows up her forehead and spreading her mouth into a smile,

Naturally, she looked ridiculous, and any progress she'd made dissolved into peels of self-conscious giggles.

"Told you," Loki said, biting his lip to keep from chuckling.

He probably thought it cruel to make fun of her efforts, but Y/N would have rathered he laughed, even if it was at her own expense. He doesn't laugh as much as he used to, his default demeanour almost sombre since his mother's visit weeks ago. Sometimes it's easy for Y/N to forget that the kingdom is teetering on the cusp of war, but, as the All-Father's son, the topic must buzz about every one of Loki's family conversations like an irritating fly.

"It can't be faked."

Y/N rubbed her jaw this time, catching the inside of her cheek between her teeth and chewing pensively. Then her spine straightened proudly, an idea popping into her head: "Shock me again."

"What?"

"Shock me. There must be more things around here I've never seen before that you can bewilder me with."

...

Y/N waited on the window seat while the prince fudged about his chambers for things he hoped might spark that desired expression. She had been waiting several minutes now, and one of her hands had strayed to fiddle with the hem of her dress, rubbing the material between finger and thumb. She'd reminded herself of the worries that gnaw at her nerves at night---war, the alliance, her and Loki's futures---and was now endeavouring to wriggle loose from their tenacious jaws. The movements she made on her dress were repetitive and mind-numbing, thought, which soothed her. She liked how velvet is made up of many miniature hairs; stroking them one way or the other can completely alter the hue of the material.

Loki must be struggling to find things she hadn't seen yet because she had---by this time---seen almost everything. After months of dutifully cleaning each item, and then several more months on top of that just whiling away the hours in these chambers, Y/N had become pretty accustomed to all of the prince's little gadgets. He'd introduced her to several when they'd cleaned together, proud of his treasures and pleased to have someone to show them off to.

Eventually, Loki returned, and tugged the little table before Y/N over with his foot and began setting out various things on its flat surface.

Curious, Y/N perched on the lip of the window seat, transfixed by the items before her. Most were new to her; things that had no doubt resided within cupboards until this point, and others were things she had seen but did not understand.

"I don't have anything quite as titillating as jam or a telescope, I'm afraid," Loki apologised, pulling up a chair for himself and taking a seat. "Most of them are desk toys."

"What's a desk toy?"

Loki checked Y/N's face to see if she was serious, and found that she absolutely was.

She'd never sat at a desk before.

The corner of his lip twitched. "They're things you keep around your workspace to amuse you. Like this." He plucked up the machine closest to him, and held it out flat on his palm.

It really did look more like a machine rather than a toy, despite the name. It appeared no fun to play with, and had someone _attempted_ to play with it, Y/N guessed it would probably shatter.

The machine was composed of a slim metal disk suspended upright like a wheel over a glass chamber. There was another disk inside that one, laying flat, this time on the bottom of the chamber.

Y/N eyed it sceptically. "What does it do?" It was pretty, yes, but utterly stationary, rather like some sort of obscure miniature work of art.

"It won't work for me. Here." Loki took Y/N's wrist in one large hand and directed it palm-up. He placed the machine in the centre, as he had held it, and they waited.

Nothing happened for a second, and then, suddenly, the disk in the glass chamber lifted of its own accord, pushing against a few wires attached to the gold wheel. It started turning.

Y/N nearly dropped it. "What's it doing?"

Loki's lips were curved into a soft smile now, and Y/N felt his eyes on the side of her face; but for once she paid them no mind.

The little wheel had sped up, churning away happily to itself as the disk in the chamber rose and fell rhythmically, pushing on the pins holding the wheel in place. That's all it seems to do; go around and around, making a satisfying little clicking noise as it spun.

"It's not doing anything, this is a heat engine. Well, a tiny one. The heat from your hand makes it turn."

Still watching the delicate machine twirl away: "Why didn't it work for you?"

"It's never worked for me. I'm too cold."

Y/N felt sorry for him then, and she wasn't sure why, so, to lighten the mood she joked: "Maybe it just doesn't like you."

Which made him laugh.

They watched it turn a bit more, Y/N trying to figure out exactly how that disk in the bottom rose and fell from heat alone. "What's it for? Like, why does it exist?"

"I told you; amusement," the prince said simply, plucking it off her hand and setting it back on the table. Without the warmth of her skin, its momentum pittered out and it fell still. "Its a desk toy, remember?"

"Does Odin keep toys on his desk?" Y/N didn't know if this question qualifies as some sort of treason, but the mental image of the All-Father fiddling with little trinkets was too amusing not to share.

A towering, stoic man with power beyond the capabilities of Y/N's imagination, she tried to picture the ruler of Asgard balancing the little gold heat engine in the middle of his vast, calloused palm. It probably wouldn't be able to sit flat, for all the battle scars crisscrossing his skin, each raised swell of flesh a symbol of a life he'd extinguished.

When Odin passes away (which will, one day, happen, no matter how unlikely it seems),

And if Thor too meets his demise before his time---assuming he has no children to follow in his footsteps,

And if Loki does not wed the Vanir princess,

The throne will fall to him.

Y/N hadn't really thought about that before. Perhaps because Loki is not the type of man that comes to mind when fathoming the ruler of Asgard. You'd expect such a man to be broad, a heap of muscles bound tight in armour as thick as a dinner plate. Not a lithe, marble-statue of a man, all sharp angles rather than rounded bulges of solid strength.

That's not to say Loki does not look like _a_ king. The way he carries himself means that Y/N sometimes forgets he isn't one already. Not a king of Asgard, though. Somewhere else, somewhere where frost prickles the corners of window panes all year round, and everyone's robes would be lined with fur.

Y/N wondered if Odin is proud of his youngest son. Their core values obviously differ greatly. Loki is sharp, whetted wit, his methods for keeping peace with other realms most likely involving slick negotiation and quick, clever bartering. Odin, however, is famed for destroying any being that poses a possible threat. He has armies stationed right now, probably, squashing some rival faction under the foot of his unyielding wrath.

"No, I don't think Father has anything like this," Loki said in such a way that made Y/N wonder if he'd ever been in the All-Father's chambers at all.

What is Odin like as a father? Hopefully, he doesn't approach the challenge of parenting with the same attitude he initiates for stifling invasions on his kingdom.

No, treating his sons with detached indifference seems more likely, which is, in many ways, slightly more tragic.

 _Y/N's_ parents are coarse, hard-working people, and yet their poverty means they understand the importance of compassion and community. They'd set Y/N peelings potatoes for dinner when she was barely old enough to grasp a blade in her pudgy fist, and yet, should she cut herself, she could always rely on the comforting embrace of her mother's bosom, and her father's broad hands to cleanse the wound with tender endearment.

She tried to conceive what growing up without the loving attention of both parents would do to a person. 

She didn't need to; the result is right next to her.

"He has vast collections of artefacts though," Loki is saying.

Y/N really must try harder to pay attention, even though speculating about the prince's past has an addicting, mysterious sort of allure to it. She knows him so well, now, and yet, in many ways, still only knows so little.

"I'll show you one day if you like."

To this, Y/N agreed eagerly, although she had little interest in the All-Father's hoard of probably-stolen battle memorabilia. She just liked the idea of spending time with Loki somewhere other than his chambers. 

Would that even be possible?

What would she say if they were discovered? _' Don't mind me, I'm just bunking off work to fraternize with a member of the royal family'_?

Before she could look into it any further, Loki had moved onto the next item he hoped would bring out that look of wonder he's after.

...

One by one Loki showed Y/N the items on the table, some of which included:

A rudimentary microscope.

A tube containing transparent liquid and dye-filled glass orbs that could read the room temperature.

A tiny spider made from metal cogs and slender wires, and a wide peg protruding from its thorax, which, if you turn clockwise, makes the arachnid crawl across the table.

Another tube, filled with clear liquid, but this one was also home to a mass of white crystals that could predict the weather.

He demonstrated how they worked. He had at first seemed hesitant to explain their inner operations---for fear of familiarity dousing any flames of wonder the trinkets managed to spark---but he quickly caved to Y/N's curious probing and astute questions. Knowing how each object functioned seemed to please her more than a cloud of uncertain ignorance ever could, and she felt her expression broadening into that grin of excitement, that disbelieving 'O' widening her mouth on several occasions---but not to the extent, apparently, that Loki was looking for.

When the desk toys failed, he moved onto self-consciously presenting Y/N with some of his artwork, all of which was beyond stunning, and he glowed with shy pride at her praise.

However, the first time Y/N had seen one of Loki's pictures she had been shocked _mainly_ because she hadn't been expecting it. She now knows that the prince is capable of tremendous things, and has known for one time, so each picture he held out was met with adoration rather than surprise. Nevertheless, he appeared to enjoy that reaction all the same, because he worked his way to the bottom of the pile despite realising there was little point.

Y/N had often wondered how Loki had taught himself to sketch faces---seeing as he doesn't have access to many. It turns out that he mainly drew the palace servants as they went about their chores, but in none of the pictures did they appear to be aware they were being painted or sketched.

As Y/N and Loki were leafing through pages of men stoking fires, women sweeping corridors, etcetera, he said quietly, his face falling:

"I don't like looking through these.

"You don't?"

"Not these pictures. I'm not involved in what's going on in _any_ of them."

Y/N understood what he meant. There's a distance to each scene, a void where emotion would usually reside within the flecks of charcoal. He probably doesn't even know most of these people's names. 

"The majority of my memories seem to be of other people and what _they_ did rather than what _I_ was doing. I didn't use to _do_ anything. I'd go unnoticed for days, sometimes. Sometimes I'd worry I'd grow old and, when laying on my deathbed, I'd look back at my life and just see a patchwork quilt of other people's lives rather than my own." 

He placed the sketches back on the table and they settled with a rustling like heavy leaves. "I used to feel like I was haunting the palace---a spirit of a prince that had died long ago." A bitter sort of laugh rose from his chest, like a crisp breeze through an open window, and Y/N placed a hand on the ridge of his shoulder blade.

He froze up below her, as if he hadn't been expecting comfort, then slackened, giving her a small, grateful smile.

"I felt like that too. When I was working in the kitchens not so much, because it's hard to get philosophical when an angry six-foot woman is yelling at you to chop potatoes faster."

A ghost of a smile quirked Loki's lip.

Y/N continued: "But afterwards, when I'd lay in bed---and when I had to clean the palace steps before everyone else was awake---that's how I felt. I was always doing things for other people's lives, so I never had the time to get one of my own. I'd often forget I'm a person."

"If it's any consolation," That smile had gone, and sadness ghosted Loki's angular face, softening it, "you're a person to me."

...

The prince doesn't just work with portraits and animals, Y/N learned. Many of his sketches were of the palace, or the views from his windows, each different as he experimented with various styles and techniques; some long, sweeping, heavy strokes, others fine, continuous lines.

None elicited that expression he had his heart so set on, though.

Artwork and trinkets pushed aside, he chewed his bottom lip, and Y/N reached out and freed it with the pad of her thumb. 

"...What if you show me a magic trick?" 

His eyebrows inched up his forehead. "I'm not very good. It takes years of practice." 

Y/N shook her head. "That's okay; my standards are pretty low." She's not lying. Being born with magic laced into your genetic makeup is so incredibly rare for anyone of Aesirian blood that most people go their entire lives without encountering any kind of genuine sorcery. "I've never met anyone who so much as dabbles in witchcraft."

Loki smirked. "Besides Aasta."

Y/N would have nudged him in the ribs with her elbow had he been close enough. "Very funny." 

She waited. "Come on. Try me." 

"I am." 

Before Y/N could tilt her head in confusion, Loki reached across the gap between them to curl a finger under her chin, and softly tilted her head up.

A house sparrow was fluttering about the air over Y/N's head, and she nearly ducked as the tip of one neat little wing almost clipped her ear. She didn't need to, she realised with embarrassing slowness. It's just a projection; the only give-away to its fictional nature being the faint light radiating from its perfect feathers, like a reflection in a pane of glass. 

It circled soundlessly several times, and, fascinated, Y/N reached out to touch it. 

Her fingertips slipped through its breast like smoke. It vanished like the remnants of a dream clearing from behind your eyelids; the effort to keep his illusions solid enough to interact with is obviously too much of a strain on Loki's rudimentary sorcery skills. 

Even so, Y/N's eyes were aglow with admiration. "That's beautiful." She felt remorse for breaking it, but Loki didn't seem to mind. 

He was smiling at her. 

"Does it hurt?" Y/N couldn't help asking. "To make it appear so life-like?" She wondered if that was a stupid question, but, then again, magic is such a mystery to most that there _are_ no stupid questions. The practice is as esoteric and alien to the masses as particle theory or gravitational fields. Y/N could not imagine how the prince makes such things appear from nothing---she just knew that however he did it it must have caused some kind of strain, seeing as it couldn't withstand her interference. 

"No, it just takes a lot of concentration." Loki ran a hand over his head like he's nursing a strained muscle. 

Y/N guessed, in a way, he was.

"It feels like trying to multiply large numbers without writing them down. Unless it's ice; that's easy for some reason." With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, a shard of solid water crystallised on his upturned palm, and he tossed it into the air for Y/N to catch.

She did, both hands closing around the brittle little icicle. She opened her grasp expecting a simple, amorphous chunk of frozen water, but found instead a tiny figurine of a horse, as intricate as though it had been carved with a miniature chisel. 

Whisps of frost smoke leaked from the tiny figure, the cold biting into Y/N's skin cells, but she was too transfixed to notice. 

The stallion had to be barley five centimetres in length, and yet, if Y/N narrowed her eyes, she could just about make out bulging veins running down its shins, the scuffs and chips in its hooves. Its jaw is parted, teeth exposed as though breathing heavy, like it has been galloping with full force then solidified mid-step. 

"You nearly did it then," Loki pointed out from Y/N's side. His voice had gone low and gentle, as though he didn't want to scare away a butterfly that had landed on him.

With Y/N's expiration gracing the horse's flank, it had begun to melt, a single droplet of water building above its stifle like a tear of sweat. She watched it roll down the narrow column of its hind leg and pool at its hoof, leaking into the lines of her hand.

"Hm?" she hummed, just a distracted single syllable. She had forgotten what it was they were doing.

How can Loki make this with just a fleeting thought? How can he just summon it, create such beauty without even trying? His father and brother are so prone---their bodies _honed_ \---to destroy, and yet Loki only ever uses his to _build_ \---

And why ice? It seems to come naturally to him, as though his body not only relishes the cold but houses it, keeps a little blizzard somewhere within him to draw on---like a life force.

"Y/N," he said, and she realised he'd moved to kneel in front of her.

She raised her head, reluctant to take her eyes off the tiny creature in her palm in case it should melt before she's finished appreciating it.

It was soon forgotten, though, with the prince's eyes now completely level with hers. She met them, feeling his gaze bore into her skull. It kept going until it touched her soul, caressing it; but tentatively, as though he was asking permission just to look at her.

"Y/N, I have an idea."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't.

Gently, she prompted: "Okay."

"Would you mind if I did something incredibly stupid?"

Y/N shook her head, even though she didn't know what it was she was agreeing to. She'd probably agree to anything Loki suggests, some distant corner of her mind realised absently. He'd rather take his own life than cause her any kind of discomfort; she can tell. She can tell by the way he's looking at her.

Without her realising, Loki's large hand had found the bony knots of Y/N's knees, and he smoothly pushed them apart to get between her legs.

She let him.

And then his mouth was on hers.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, had to post this quickly so message me if there's any mistakes, I'll correct em later

Loki’s lips are warm. 

Or maybe they’re cool, and it's _Y/N’s_ that are warm, heating the prince’s skin, her energy mixing and mingling with his atoms. 

He’s just pressing their mouths together softly, loosening when Y/N responds, and then it's over, as he eases away.

But he’s still cupping Y/N’s jaw, the smooth curve of it cradled in his broad palm. His breath is quick, each exhale ghosting Y/N's face like down feathers drawn benignantly over her skin. He drags his brilliant eyes open to gauge her reaction, his other hand still at her leg, almost hovering over it like she’s something delicate he doesn’t want to break.

His cheeks are pink. It’s a light pink, delicate and barely visible---but it _is_ there---and his pupils are swallowing up each iris, swamping them, drowning them. He’s staring at Y/N’s lips as if he can’t seem to drag them away.

Y/N is sure he can feel her pulse fluttering like the frantic wings of a startled moth where his thumb is settled against her throat. 

The width of a blade of grass is all that stands between their foreheads. Loki still hasn’t moved away, and Y/N doesn’t want him to---she’s scared that he will, and her free hand reached out of its own accord, finding the back of his head, keeping him close before he can leave. 

His hair is soft under Y/N’s palms, in a masculine sort of way; wiry yet smooth, like the feathers of a swan. Before she even realised she was doing it, her fingers had submerged themselves in it, the strands like scuffs of charcoal scribbled across the backs of her hands. 

Loki let her, his eyes slipping closed. 

Encouraged, Y/N clutched the thick coils, over conscious of hurting him---

but she needn't have worried;

A small, low noise broke in his chest. 

It grated roughly against Y/N’s core, like a wet stone over a rock, and without thinking, just calling upon some instinct, some deeply rooted knowledge she didn't know she possessed, Y/N tugged his lips back against her own. 

Because she wanted more of those unintentional little sounds. 

And he’s letting her touch him. 

And what if she never gets the chance to do that again? 

Loki’s palm finally closed over Y/N’s leg, to steady himself as he fell into her embrace willingly, eagerly. 

It's hard to keep her mouth shut, to keep a respectable distance; although that ship had long since left the metaphorical harbour. Loki isn’t even trying---to keep his distance, or to keep his mouth shut. Y/N allowed him to ease her jaw open with the pad of his thumb at her chin, and he swallowed the shaky edge of her moan as though it were bittersweet food. 

Encouraged by her compliance, by her obvious enjoyment, his large hands bundled her closer, and Y/N let herself collapse against him, her body meeting the solid strength of his chest. It’s steady and unmovable and reassuring, like the trunk of a tree. 

Her heart overflowing with tender love for him, Y/N's grip on his hair tightened, urging him nearer, and Loki slackened against her with a sound of immense pleasure, his hand at her knee hunting out the dip of her waist, grasping it. He’s still kneeling on the ground, and pushed his body further into the space between Y/N’s thighs, his heart flurrying quickly against the bodice of her dress. 

The tiny ice horse is liquifying in Y/N’s tightly clenched palm, the sharp points of its ears, muzzle and legs rounding into dulled nubs. Its transparent blood had begun to leak from the cracks between her fingers and she let it go. The amorphous lump fell to the ground with a tinkling, metallic ring. 

Had Loki been any other man, Y/N would have hesitated before taking his jawline with that hand, numb and slick with cold; maybe wiped it on her dress first; given it a little shake to restore some heat and blood to the chilled skin. 

But Loki didn’t even flinch, just leaned into it, giving the full curve of Y/N's bottom lip a little tug as if trying to show her he liked it.

…

It was Y/N who eased away---tore herself away, _dragged_ herself away. Because her chest was burning. She needed to breathe, and it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to realise that; her own survival just a sloppy afterthought, an irritating little voice poking the back of her brain. 

Lungs replenished, she tried to lean in again, expecting to find Loki’s lips hungry and responsive---

But she couldn’t find them at all; the place they’d occupied, that space just in front of Y/N’s own now vacant and empty.

Confused, Y/N’s eyes fluttered open. 

The prince was just watching her. Yes, he’d pulled back, away from Y/N’s face, his mouth curved in a smile. 

He must have seen her brows come together like a tightly-pulled stitch, but gave her no explanation. Just said simply: 

“Perfect.” 

What’s perfect? 

Y/N? 

The kiss? That _had_ been perfect--- 

So why isn’t he letting her do it again? 

“Y/N?” He’d asked something before that, something Y/N had missed. 

She blinked, grappling for firm footing on reality, but found none. Her thoughts kept sliding sideways, falling back to Loki’s _hair_ , his _hands_ , his _lips_ \---they aren’t so narrow now. They’re not their usual pastel pink either, but a vibrant raspberry, the light from the window reflecting off of the lower one. If Y/N looks really closely, she can see the pointed piques of the mountains stretched over their curve.

“Yes?” The syllable wobbled limply off Y/N’s tongue, it being seemingly just as weak as her knees. She feels as though her entire body is half-cooked spaghetti. It’s wonderful. 

But then Loki let go of her waist. “I said: do you think you can hold that look?”

The word ‘look’ sparked some half-buried memory in Y/N’s intellect, and then a few more cropped up like ugly fungi in a damp corner:

The painting. 

They’d been trying to find an expression. 

Realisation slotted into place, painfully like a poorly-cut wooden jigsaw. The expression Loki had been searching for was of shock and awe, and, in an attempt to summon it, he’d kissed her. 

_And what a kiss._

Clearly, it had worked. 

Shoving a nibbling sense of disappointment heavily to one side, Y/N gave a nod. “I think so.”

And then her hands were empty, and her eyes followed the prince’s lithe form as it crossed quickly back over to the canvas. 

…

It was a little while before anyone said anything. There was no sound to fill the silence; not even the usual sweeping of the prince’s brush, or the dab of paint, as the area he was focused on is much too small for such things. Y/N hastened a guess that he’s painting quickly, though, his glances at her are fleeting before ducking back behind the easel; her kiss-dazed expression is time-sensitive, and she can feel it draining from her face already. 

When the prince’s tone neatly sliced the silence in two, it came to Y/N softened and almost fuzzy; like a line drawn by a 9B charcoal stick. Y/N wasn’t sure if it was fondness, or simply the canvas filtering it, sifting each word like a sieve, removing any harsh granules of grit. 

“I was going to offer my apologies for pouncing on you like that.” Loki leaned to the right of the painting, just enough to flash Y/N a smile. It was all teeth and smirky eyebrows and it made her blush to the roots of her hair. “But I don’t think you minded, did you?” 

“Nor did you, by the sound of it,” Y/N shot back, puffing her chest up like a small animal trying to make itself appear bigger to put off a much larger animal from eating it. “I’m pretty sure Prince’s shouldn’t make noises like that.”

That _noise_. It's like he'd brushed the fringes of her soul. 

He’d dipped back behind the stretched rectangle of cotton. “Well, a respectable woman shouldn’t be able to kiss like _that.”_

Heat poured from the crown of Y/N’s head to the base of her neck again, but this time for a whole different reason. Defensively: “I was just copying you.” 

“You shouldn’t have, I didn’t actually know what I was doing.” 

Several thoughts collided in Y/N’s brain. She took a moment to peel them apart and straighten them back out enough to appear coherent. Surely he can’t be implying that---? 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean: I haven't had any practice.” He said it simply, delivering the words with unashamed clarity. 

Unable to mask her obvious surprise, Y/N blurted: “But look at you.” 

Loki’s elbow came to an abrupt halt, and even though she couldn’t see his expression, Y/N could tell it would be curled into a pleased grin. “Y/N, I'm also a prince. I can't exactly have lovers traipsing through the palace to and from my bedroom before marriage, can I? People would notice.”

“So? You’re a prince, no one would be surprised if you had concubines.” She nearly added _‘They think you_ do _, and that I’m one of them’_ but bit her tongue. She knew Loki wouldn’t let her work for him anymore if he had reason to believe it was harming her or her reputation in any way, no matter how many times she assured him she doesn’t mind their teasing. 

A chuckle drifted over to Y/N’s place by the window, a velvet curl of amusement. “The public expects me to grossly misuse my power?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. And I know that that’s what people expect, but---regardless of the rumours---my family actually likes to conduct itself with a bit more decorum. Father always told me that a ruler’s reputation is like a cliff-face. If it gets waterlogged with doubt, jealousy, and mistrust, it will become weak and will crumble.” 

Loki leaned aside, then and said in a measured tone: “The royal family is supposed to _run_ the kingdom, after all, not have their every need served by it.” He’d said it firmly, pressing it to Y/N’s memory like something he hoped would stick---although she wasn’t sure why. 

“Plus,” he’s squinting at her mouth, now, but as a painter, not a man, taking in the rhythm of the line, “I wouldn’t actually want to share my bed with strangers.” 

Y/N was grateful when Loki disappeared behind the canvas again, her conscience having ignited with a hot flame of remorse and mortification. 

She had just insinuated that the prince of Asgard is some kind of slut---and she’s still alive? She doesn’t deserve to be. Restlessly, she watched Loki’s pale hand gravitate to the low table to reload his brush, her eyes raking his movements for any hint of what he might be feeling, or what he might do next. 

Would he keep her here until the painting is finished, and then have her hanged? Or maybe he’d punish her himself, personally? Although, crossing over to give her a hefty slap doesn’t seem his style; perhaps he’ll summon an army of guards and have them do it instead?

Loki just took some more paint, a pleasant pink sort of colour. He doesn’t _appear_ tense with rage, or whatever else he absolutely has the right to be. He doesn’t appear anything. 

Even so, Y/N’s stomach writhed like a pile of snakes with shame. For months she’d let herself get swept up and carried along by the ugly gossip swamping the servant’s quarters. Why had she not pieced together her own judgement about his character? Or simply left him be, rather than picking at his personal life like a catty old woman peeking through her curtains at the neighbours?

Then something occurred to her, a nugget of information so fascinating it distracted her from her discomfiture entirely:

“Wait, that was your first kiss?” The words rushed from her chest like a flock of freed birds, and she clamped it closed expeditiously. She really needs to get a reign on her tongue, Y/N mentally chastised herself. Honestly, it's a wonder she’s still breathing, and not somewhere in the courtyard having her body relieved of its head. 

Loki’s hand holding the brush paused mid-way between the water jar and the rag he planned to dry it with. “Yes.” 

Y/N had thought he’d stay hidden, preferring to admit something so personal to the picture of her rather than the real thing---but he leaned out and met her eyes---as a man now, not a painter. 

He gave her a smile. “Thank you for that, by the way. 

Y/N moistened her lips. They still taste of him, and she became a little overwhelmed by the strong, insistent desire to approach the chaise lounge and kiss him again. 

Instead, she said quickly: “Don’t mention it.” 

She'd meant it as a turn of phrase---a response picked hastily because Loki's sincerity had caught her off-guard---but regretted it almost instantly. 

He took her advice, and didn’t mention it for the rest of the evening. 

...

As night began seeping into the sky like ink spilt on parchment, Loki walked Y/N to the door of his chambers. He stopped before reaching out for the handle, and Y/N wondered if he was going to bend down and kiss her goodbye. 

He didn’t however, just took a scrap of parchment from a nearby chest of draws and scribbled something on it in his steady, looping hand, and transferred it to Y/N’s palm. They said their usual goodbyes, then Y/N heard the soft click of the lock behind her, echoing about the vast empty hallway. She squinted at the parchment in the gloom and found merely a short list of pigments he wanted her to pick up at the market. 

…

Y/N got little sleep that night, because her brain was fizzing away to itself like someone had filled her skull with ale, then given it a thorough shake. 

Loki hadn’t let Y/N see the portrait when she’d left, this time, declaring he wanted the finished product to be a surprise. Y/N pleaded with him, claiming to be fascinated by the process and pained to miss even a second of it---but of course, that wasn’t the real reason, and something about the upward quirk of the prince’s lip suggested he knew that. 

The real reason Y/N had wanted to check the painting’s progress was to see if Loki had completed her face, or if he would need to kiss her again tomorrow. 

If he did, would she mind? And, would she let him? Does she even...want him to?

The fact that she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he’d pulled away was a good indication that, yes, she does want him to, very much. Earlier, when Loki had been painting her, every look he cast threw her senses into disarray. His lips---still flushed from Y/N’s touch sent an electric tension filling her body and prickling each hungry nerve cell. She had both delighted in it and feared it, or rather; feared what it implied. Her obvious enjoyment from Loki’s gentle presses had solidified her earlier suspicions, and that realisation was terrifying. 

Of all the people to fall for, why did it have to be him? Loki Odinson, soon to be engaged; whisked away to another kingdom---a _prince_. 

Would things have gone differently for them, had Loki been just a man? Perhaps---what? An inventor, or maybe an author, probably. Or perhaps a teacher. If they had met, then, in some lower-class village, or bumped into each other at the market, would he have kissed her much sooner? And for much longer?

Did he pull away because he is a prince and Y/N is but a lowly servant? Is that great, hollow chasm of difference between them why he appears so reluctant to pursue any feelings he has for her? 

If he harbours feelings for her at all. 

Afterall, what evidence does Y/N have to back up her theory that he’d cultivated some kind of...attraction to her? What experience does she have that could heighten her understanding, sharpen the blade of her wit enough to give her any chance at guessing any man’s intentions? She has merely paddled in the metaphorical sea of romance, simply wetted her toes to test the temperature. What right does she have to assume a _nything_ about the youngest prince of Asgard’s emotions? 

And to even conceive the notion that he’d kissed her because he _likes_ her; absurd. And probably some form of lèse-majesté. 

But he _had_ seemed to like the kiss. So why had he pulled away?

Frustrated, and knowing sleep would evade her for many hours to come, Y/N called it a loss and pushed off her bed covers. 

Slowly, as not to wake her peers or---Odin forbid---Alfdis, Y/N took her pad of parchment, charcoal, and a wax stick from her bedside dresser, and found her way to the mess hall in the dark. It was pleasingly empty, and Y/N brushed a hand over the surface of a nearby bench, ridding it of the leftover flecks of the evening's meal. Then she held the wax stick on its side, allowing some grease to leak onto the table, and pressed the end of the stick into it. 

While she waited for the wax to harden enough to support the candle’s weight, she thumbed through her parchment pad for a fresh page, and contemplated what to draw. Loki had printed a neat list of things she could have a go at---ascending in difficulty---and so far she was on the third bullet point; a bird. He’d said it would give her a 'vital understanding of anatomy and movement', but Y/N didn’t feel like drawing something that moves at the moment. What she really wanted to draw is the ice figurine of a horse he had tossed to her all those hours ago, the one that had melted with the heat of his kiss. She knew it would be a challenge, and yet letting such beauty go undocumented felt like more of a crime than misrepresenting it. 

Once Y/N felt the wax stick was stable, she released it and pushed her notepad closer to the flame’s feeble flickering of light, and set to work. 

...

Just before the wax stick burnt out, Y/N pried it from the table and used the nub to find her way back to her quarters, parchment and a much shorter rod of charcoal clutched in one hand. 

The sketchbook held a drawing of a stallion made from ice, and it’s actually rather good.

…

Y/N woke early the next morning, but felt refreshed, and was one of the first to arrive at the mess hall for breakfast. After a quick meal that mainly consisted of watery oats, she set out for the market, her pace subconsciously and unnecessarily brisk. All before noon, she had collected the pigments Loki had requested, and hastily purchased a box of red velvet cakes from Aasta, then arrived back at the palace with time to spare. 

She had spent most of last night turning over the conundrum of Loki’s kiss in her head, and concluded that she _would_ let him do it again.

For the painting. 

It would be a shame to deny the picture---the most elegant and sophisticated thing Y/N had ever, and would ever, be involved in---the complimenting expression it deserves. If Y/N’s expression had been anything like Loki’s when they’d broken the kiss and taken a look at each other’s faces, the portrait would be even more stunning than Y/N had ever imagined. 

The other reason Y/N would let the prince kiss her again was a selfish one, and she kept it stuffed in a dark, forgotten corner of her mind as though it was a hideous piece of furniture she was rather ashamed of: she had enjoyed it. It had stirred things within her that she did not know where there, and she was eager to continue with that new discovery. 

As Y/N’s feet drew to a halt---the first time they’d been stationary since sleep---outside the prince’s chambers, she wondered about waiting for the bell to signify twelve o'clock before knocking at his door. However, after a moment's deliberations, she decided against it, knowing she would not be able to withstand that much time alone with her thoughts. They're buzzing like a hive of trapped bees, and the pressure of their multitudinous, vibrating wings was getting to her. 

Thankfully, when Y/N gave Loki’s chamber door a tentative knock, he answered with a smile. She did not appear to have interrupted him from sleep or his morning routine. 

“Sorry, I’m early.”

He stepped aside to let her into the room. “Y/N, you never need to apologise for blessing me with your company.” 

Instinctively, Y/N glanced at that corner of his lip, that one that usually quirks up like a string’s attached to it whenever he’s teasing her. 

But it was merely curved in a genuine smile. 

…

They spent a few hours preparing the pigments Y/N had bought, the movement a rhythm her hand can now carry out on its own, without her brain’s interference. This gave her much unwanted time to think, and she found herself on high alert, her ears metaphorically pricked for any subtle change in the prince’s deportment towards her. 

She had wondered if anything would change between them; making your friend moan with arousal is bound to do something to a relationship, surely?

However, as Y/N kneeled at Loki’s side, well-oiled conversation sliding back and forth between them, she found no noticeable deviation from their usual interactions. He inquired after her day, she enquired after his evening, he asked her how her sketching was coming along, etcetera---all as though they’re old friends---and Y/N was at odds over whether this made her glad or sad. 

On the one hand, their friendship becoming marred with awkwardness would be a travesty. Y/N would rather lose a limb than have their smooth, easy communications become gummed up by embarrassment like a carriage attempting to navigate a muddy track. 

However, some hopeful, pitiful, romantic part of her soul had wondered whether their relationship might be pitched into a new, more intimate tier. It had dared to dream that maybe, just maybe, the fact that he didn't mind kissing her---even _enjoyed_ kissing her---signified the start of something, something new and exciting. 

As time went on, though, and Y/N listened to Loki tell some amusing story about his brother, she realised that the part of her that had dared to wish for an affair with the prince is clearly nothing but a hopeless romantic. It should not be trusted, and she hopes that husk of sentimentality will be crushed by time and wisdom before it ends up infecting the rest of her heart and causing its inevitable break. 

…

When the paints were prepared, Y/N helped Loki transport the multitudinous little bowls to his nest of art supplies, all waiting patiently for his arrival just as he had left them the night before. 

When Y/N then moved to arrange herself in the window seat, Loki took her wrist softly, and gestured to the fireplace. 

“Why don’t we have a drink first? I feel bad, making you sit there making paint for me, then sit there doing nothing.” 

Touched, Y/N conceded, and Loki started stacking kindling in the cold ashes of the hearth, gratefully allowing Y/N to take the matches from him before he could light the little pyramid of sticks he’d made. She waited until he was safely perched on the long sofa---that she’d angled with one end farther from the fireplace than the other---before striking the match. The wood caught at once, and began purring away happily to itself, splintering loudly now and again like it was hiccuping between mouthfuls of tree bark and phloem.

Loki poured some milk into a copper kettle and handed it to Y/N to place over the flames. As it heated, he said:

“I haven't finished painting your face yet.” 

Y/N knew what he meant. She watched him fill a mug with milk for himself, and ladle a heaped teaspoon of honey from a jar. It oozed from the utensil in its own leisurely time, elongating into a rod of transparent amber before finally breaking the surface of the milk. “Okay.” 

“Would you mind if I did what I did last time? Again? That expression was wonderful.” His velvet tone shad softened with something Y/N didn’t recognise.

A small smile twitching her lip: “I think, yesterday, you described it as ‘ _perfect_.”

The sharp ridges of his cheekbones coloured, and he quipped back with a smirk: “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

…

Y/N arranged her body in its usual pose upon the window seat, finding her limbs uncooperative and stiff with exhilaration. 

Loki knelt before her again, took her waist again, hummed when she slipped her fingers into his hair again. And when he pulled away, he said again:

“Perfect.” 

His mouth had tasted of milk and honey. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back, baby

Every session started like that from then on.

Loki always bends down, taking a knee as though to propose, sometimes cupping the line of Y/N’s jaw, or curling a finger about her chin. He’ll ease her face close to his own as if to kiss her---but he never does. Every time, as if bumping into an invisible barrier, he comes to a halt, his cool breath grazing Y/N’s skin through his parted lips.

At first, she’d thought he was messing with her; teasingly withholding his touch, knowing she’s aching for it and revelling in her torment. But, a few kisses later, it dawned on her that his hesitation might be down to something else.

The way he catches himself before claiming her mouth---it’s almost as if he’s waiting for her to push him away. Surely, he must know she wants him? All of him; his pointy, curling smile when he’s particularly pleased with himself, his slick, witty personality, his skin pale as freshly fallen snow and almost as cold.

Perhaps it’s a gentlemanly act of courtesy---him waiting there for Y/N to eliminate those final few millimetres between their mouths? He doesn’t want to overwhelm her, to appear too forward, too ravenous, too hungry.

But he seems _ravenous---_ as soon as Y/N initiates the kiss, it’s like she’s granted him permission, or opened a flood gate. He bundles her up against the solidness of his chest like he _needs_ her there, clutches her waist like he _wants_ to touch her there, tilts his head like he’s aching for the taste of her---whatever had been holding him back before completely forgotten.

So why does he never kiss her first?

Maybe he’s giving her a chance to change her mind. After all, their kisses are not as simple as two people who love each other sharing a tender touch. They’re not even the byproduct of a complicated friends-bordering-on-lovers relationship whose nature is yet unclear. _There is no relationship._ Every squeeze of Loki’s hands, every flick of his pointy tongue, every press of his lips has been due to, because of, and for…

A painting. His reluctance to pounce on her---like Y/N so wishes he would---makes that fact glaringly obvious. It prods at her like a stone in her shoe.

...

“Ah, Y/N, there you are.”

Y/N looked up from her dinner to find a heap of neatly-folded washing making its way carefully across the mess hall. She watched as it picked a path through the remaining diners before finally coming to a stop, Alfdis’ little face popping out from one side.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.” The little old lady’s tone was light, but there was something soft and apologetic behind her eyes that made Y/N nervous.

All the same, she swallowed her mouthful of what Yllva had advertised as stewed vegetables, and pulled on what she hoped appeared to be a welcoming smile. “Good news, I hope?”

The lines surrounding Alfdis’ mouth shifted with the ghost of a frown as she brushed a few crumbs from the table and set her pile of laundry down. “I don’t think it is, I’m afraid.” She took a second to catch her breath, and Y/N wondered what was draining her; the burden of supporting a pile of linen equal to her in size, or the message she was about to deliver.

Y/N took a cup from the centre of the table and poured her a glass of water from the carafe. Alfdis took it gratefully, and perched on the bench at Y/N’s side, postponing whatever task she was in the middle of. 

_'Someone must have died,'_ Y/N thought grimly, and angled herself towards the older woman, who cupped her glass in her lap in both hands and moistened the thin dash of her upper lip.

“You see, we should really start talking about what you will do when Loki moves to the Vanir kingdom.”

Y/N blinked at her.

She wasn’t sure which came as more of a surprise; hearing Alfdis refer to a member of the royal family by their first name, or the hefty blow that was her words. Y/N felt like air push from her lungs as though they'd been physical entities barrelling into her chest.

On a matter of sympathetic principle, she had avoided asking Loki about the alliance, which he seemed to appreciate. Together, they’d reached an unspoken understanding---a pact formed entirely from deluded optimism---that his wedding would just go away if they buried it far back enough in their consciousness. Y/N did not want to needlessly toy with his wounds, and she trusted that, should there be news, he would share it with her.

But had something changed whilst she’d made the trek from his chambers to the servant’s quarters? Had an announcement been declared whilst she’d been queuing for her meal, or visiting the privy?

Y/N felt suddenly as though the bench she's sitting on had been pulled out from under her.

Surly an announcement would have been given had Odin actually succeeded in forming a genuine alliance? Surly, for news like that, there would be a summons gathering the public together so they can be addressed as one; maybe even celebrations and feasts organised to honour such a historical moment?

Y/N had to take a few long sips from her cup of water to force an annoying knot of broccoli down her throat. It had a long way to go, because her stomach seemed to have fallen wetly to the floor. “I thought nothing had been decided yet?” Her voice was thin and taught, and Alfdis must have noticed, because she’s too sharp not to.

The competent old bones in her hand shifted as though she was going to place a comforting palm to Y/N’s arm, but decided not to. “Nothing is set in stone yet, but it will be, one day. An alliance with the Vanir will benefit trade, prevent wars---it will do wonders for the kingdom, Y/N, do you understand that?”

Slightly stunned, Y/N nodded, although she didn’t fully understand what Alfdis was asking. Does she somehow know that Y/N would give her left arm to keep Loki here, with her, for everything to remain as it is? 

For one heart-stopping moment, Y/N wondered if Alfdis had caught them kissing---

But, of course, that is impossible. Loki’s chambers are notoriously off-limits to everyone but himself, his mother, and Y/N.

When Y/N finally found some words, they were quiet and more feeble than she would have liked. She wanted to sound nonchalant; just an employee curious about her position and wages, not a love-sick girl pining for a forbidden crush. “How did you know about the wedding? I thought it was supposed to be a secret?”

Alfdis raised an eyebrow and parried with: “How do _you_ know about it?” Although the question seemed to be rhetorical, Y/N answered anyway:

“Rumours.” A lie, and Y/N could tell the head housekeeper knew it.

She didn’t chastise her, though, just sighed. She has more wrinkles when she exhales, as though her body is tissue paper, so light its shape is dictated by the shifting of air particles. “Rumours leak through walls like water. Everyone in the kingdom will know, given a few days, and then the Allfather will have to take back control by making a decision.”

A few days? Loki’s fate might be settled within a few _days?_

“But---” Y/N tried, unable to stifle her desperately, “Surely there are other ways to make an alliance?"

Alfdis blinked at her, clearly surprised, and answered, taken aback: "Well, yes, but the Allfather---"

Y/N ploughed over her words, regret searing her conscience. She isn't angry at Alfdis, this sweet woman who treats her with the compassion of a mother. She's angry at _herself;_ at her stupid heart. She's angry that no one marries for love in this over-worked, coarse kingdom. She's angry at _Odin_ \---and all of a sudden syllables are flying from her mouth like bats startled from a cave. "Surely he knows a _wedding_ is not strong enough to heal a several-thousand-year rift between two kingdoms---"

Alfdis' kindly expression hardened in a way that would have been disconcerting had Y/N noticed. "And you're a diplomatic expert, are you?"

Y/N felt herself prickle. "Of course not, it just doesn't make any sense---"

"Well, not to someone of our stature, obviously---"

Placing her cutlery down on the table, her meal forgotten: “I don’t think I believe in stature anymore”

This actually made the older woman laugh, and it sliced Y/N's legs at the knees, and all of a sudden she's nine years old again, ignorant and unformed. 

But only for a moment. Because isn’t she _right_ , after all? Isn’t Y/N _proof_ of the fact that anyone can learn anything? _'We can't understand such things', 'It's not our place',_ but _why?_ Are poor people's minds formed differently? Do they lack something? Is there a piece missing that means they can't comprehend beautiful, complicated things like history or chemistry or art? 

Once, Y/N might have believed that, but not anymore. With Loki, with Arne, with Frode, she has discussed all of those things. She'd learnt about the planets and the stars, massive celestial bodies and their paths across the sky. She'd learnt of particles, of atoms and bonds, how materials interact and affect one another. She'd leant of fields and electrons, that invisible energies pass through everything, and that is how Loki can create miniature ice horses and phantom birds. Y/N's vocabulary has swelled, her skills have broadened, her thoughts curious and richer; despite her class and her poverty and her background. She’d _understood._

“In a fantasy land, perhaps,” Alfdis quipped simply, and, with a white-hot flare of rage, Y/N hated her cheery disposition, just for a second. How can she just _accept---?_

“No, the way I see it," Y/N fought back, hackles raised in defence of her new knowledge, "with access to proper education, anyone can understand anything, and I understand conflict enough to make a pretty good guess that _forcing_ two people to be together is a _shit_ solution---”

A look of slight alarm came over Alfdis’ features now, her eyebrows raising and pushing folds of skin up her forehead like a duvet kicked to the end of a bed. “Y/N! Watch your tongue!”

"Why? Because it’s not my _place_ to recognise that the Allfather is making a terrible mistake? Loki is his _son_ , and he's sending him away? Why is it okay to _force_ a person to have to give their whole life over to someone they don't even know? Why can’t---”

“No, it is _not_ your place to question these things!” Alfdis interrupted this time, her words slicing cleanly through Y/N’s rant in a tone she had not heard before.

Y/N felt the hairs on her arms stand erect. 

She had always wondered how kindly, simple Alfdis managed to claim to her position at the top of the pile of servants, and then managed to maintain it---unopposed---for so many years. This unsuspected, formidable ability to quickly and easily set someone back in their place must be how. A firm believer in tradition, Alfdis is a woman of practical, immediate things; like when the dinner must be prepared and how much the maids should be paid for overtime. She can sympathise with Y/N’s rapidly shifting life, and possibly for her loss of a good friendship---even if that friendship should technically not exist---but that sympathy is limited and easily drained. She has neither the patience or compassion for silly romantic plights, and she hasn’t dedicated her entire life to the Royal Family just to have an insolent youth disrespect them like this.

“You are barely a babe---what do you know about treaties or entente or concords between entire nations?”

Y/N's mouth opened, but she couldn't summon any sound. Two of those terms were so alien she couldn’t even begin to guess at their meaning. 

At that moment, as if recognising its defeat, her adrenaline pittered out, and she yielded, ashamed, her spine sinking into a defeated slouch.

“We must trust in the Allfather because he is our king, and he knows what is best for us and his country,” Alfdis continued, but she’d softened her tone, now. She’s speaking in that careful, measured way she talks when she feels that what she’s saying is some form of ‘advice’ that should be taken very seriously.

She’s usually right.

“I too was a young adult once, if you will believe it, and I understand how powerful one feels when they start to understand the world after so many years of confusion."

Y/N just hummed. Where is the line between genuine correctness and deluded youth who's perception is still too narrow to take in the whole picture? And how can you tell which side of it you are standing? Is this---who she is now, a curious, passionate woman bubbling with interest and an unrelenting sense of right and wrong---something she'll just...grow out of? Will she one day become like Alfdis, or her parents, or Yllva; submissively taking a step back whenever opinion or deep thought is required? 

As if Y/N wasn't utterly miserable enough, now, Alfdis continued, metaphorically dusting salt onto her wounds and rubbing it in: 

"You must realise that getting promoted from a cleaner to a housemaid does not qualify you to critique even _my_ decisions, let alone a monarch’s. And as for his Royal Highness, it is his _duty_ to his kingdom---”

“You didn’t call him ‘Loki’, that time,” Y/N pointed out sullenly, as if it meant something.

Alfdis just frowned, her shoulders wilting, even though she hadn’t sighed. “I have known The Young Prince since he was learning to walk; sometimes his name slips out, and if it does, it is entirely accidental. He is ‘His Royal Highness’ to me, and to you as well.” Her eyes narrowed and she said firmly, reminding Y/N very much of her mother: “Even if he has told you otherwise.”

Y/N felt the back of her neck heat at this, as though she’d been caught stealing. 

They both fell into silence, but it was anything but quiet. Y/N could hear the smooth cogs of Alfdis’ mind churning away, and she knew she was deciding how to proceed. 

Y/N should be punished, even she knew that, the question is how, and what for? This argument, obviously---insubordination to her employer is worth a thorough pay-docking---or even dismissal---and her disrespect to the crown counts as borderline treason. But what else does Alfdis know about?

Y/N has an inkling suspicion the older woman knows about her unethical acquaintanceship with the prince, but does she know that it's flourished into more than that?

Does she know that she’s never bowed to Loki, not even once? And stopped being his housemaid months ago, and now spends most of her time playing with him, laughing with him, chatting to him like they’re old friends?

Does she know that Y/N has tugged His Highness in for a kiss more than once, more than twice, grasped at his royal hair and had her face cupped in his royal hands?

Does she also know that Y/N discards her uniform for the majority of the day---literally and metaphorically?

A decision apparently reached, Alfdis brushed some imaginary dust from her impeccably crisp uniform, like a cat licking itself down after a fight. 

Y/N released a breath she didn't know she had been holding in. Their dispute is over, and---this time---she has escaped unscathed. She must learn to restrain her temper, though. It flicks out like the pointed, sharp tongue of a snake, and one day it will touch on the wrong person's nerves.

"Anyway, Y/N, I did not come over here to have a political debate with you. What I wanted to talk to you about is the nature of your position once The Young Prince leaves. May we get back to that?”

Deflated, Y/N said nothing. She doesn't really have any say in the matter, and she knows it; if Alfdis wants to say something, she will. She may be small and as old as time, but she's plucky, and will keep plodding along relentlessly well after we're all dead and gone.

 _'Like a tortoise,'_ Y/N thought impassively, 

“Now, even though you are technically a housemaid, you aren’t actually a _housemaid_. You have never received training, have no real experience with waiting on royalty, and have never been taught the proper customs for such a prestigious position.”

_'A mean tortoise.'_

“Thanks,” Y/N muttered sardonically under her breath, nettled.

Alfdis neatly swept it away with more words, her tone brisk and efficient. “I speak only the truth, dear. You are only in the position you are in now because His Highness requested for you specifically.”

Y/N’s ears pricked up at this. She _had_ put two and two together---that Loki was the reason for her promotion---but she had never turned the notion over in her mind properly, or analysed it with any real scrutiny. When they had met on the steps all those months ago, under the brittle dawn sun, she had taken an instant liking to him. She had never really considered the fact that he might have taken one to her as well.

Despite everything, her lips curved into a smile.

Alfdis’ gaze flicked over it, but she didn’t comment. “Because of this, once His Highness leaves, I can’t let you continue as a housemaid. You will have to go back to cleaning the palace steps. Or perhaps, if a position is available, you may have a place completing minor house-hold chores in the servant’s quarters, like changing the bed linen.” She said it as though passing Y/N a present, and Y/N knew---in a way, she was.

However, it didn’t feel like that, it felt like she had given her an award and was now trying to take it back, saying a mistake had been made and that she didn’t deserve it after all. Y/N’s jaw was twinging uncomfortably, and she realised that she was unintentionally clenching it. “I have to go back to cleaning the steps?” She said, not really a question, not really a statement.

She brought her hands out from under the table. They'd been scrunched up like the balls of parchment littering Loki's chambers, but she spread them now, letting her gaze slide solemnly over the palms. They prickled with memories of the numb, bitter cold; of the damp, splintering wood of the mop. She will miss their new softness, the smooth, unbroken tenderness of their skin. She will miss using the pads of each finger to touch, to feel.

This time, Alfdis did let her hand rest on Y/N’s arm.

She barely felt it; it was as light as a sparrow.

“Maybe not. As I said, there might be room for you on the dormitory team. And, of course, the prince may want you to continue tending to his chambers every now and again so they are suitable for his visits.”

Y/N's spine straightened all at once. "His visits?"

"Yes, dear. You know; when he and his new wife come to stay at the palace for a season or two."

Y/N ignored the knot her stomach curled itself into at the word _'wife'---_ she will _not_ be one of those pathetic, jealous people who pine over things that aren't theirs. No, Y/N shall be the kind of woman who is pleased for the Vanir princess; after all, if _Y/N_ can't give Loki the love and attention he deserves, someone else should.

“Why would they do that?”

The bony ridge of Alfdis’ shoulders rose and fell in a disinterested shrug, as if it was all the same to her, but _Y/N_ could feel her pulse in her ears. "It's customary for couples whose marriage joins two kingdoms to spend equal time at each; to make the public feel they're not forgotten."

Y/N turned back to her meal, and picked at it with the prongs of her fork in a way she hoped was nonchalant. "So... he'll be coming back?"

A tightness pulled around Alfdis' jaw, and when she replied, she did so carefully. "Perhaps. Unless he or his new wife decides not to continue that tradition."

Y/N wondered is Loki would, if he was given the choice. Would he _want_ to return to the place he had once called home after being torn from it? Or would he prefer to sever all ties once and for all, mentally and physically, so yearnings for his past life can no longer pull and tug at him like thorns catching loose threads? Would it be too painful to return for a season, knowing he only has to leave again, over and over?

Y/N imagined having to wipe the dust from his deserted trinkets while he sips tea with the Vanir princess on the settee by the fire, their easy, familiar conversation buzzing in the air like flies. She imagined the ache in her chest---of seeing him after months apart, months with another woman---and paled.

Maybe going back to cleaning the palace steps is the right choice after all.


	25. Chapter 25

Some hours later, the shock of Alfdis’ little talk was beginning to wear off. It had faded into a low, dull throbbing of anxiety and apprehension, and Y/N dealt with it by another sketching session that lasted well into the night.

Her sketching is improving significantly, bringing truth to the phrase _‘practice makes perfect’,_ although practising has not been Y/N’s intention for several days. Loki tends to draw as an expression of joy---to encapture beauty and pleasant moments, whereas Y/N has become rather fond of the opposite. She does not note down the existing beauty she sees, she _creates her own_ , and seeks refuge in it. She is soothed by the blank span of the parchment, content within the minimalistic tangle of fluffy black lines.

With every passing day---both concerned for their separate futures---Y/N and Loki find the fog of apprehension surrounding them growing darker and thicker. It mars Loki’s view, filling his head and getting in his eyes, snuffing out his artistic inclinations as beauty becomes more and more difficult to find. His chambers---usually riddled with balls of parchment like apples fallen from a tree---has become bare, as if that tree has suddenly stopped producing fruit.

Not for Y/N, though. This uncertainty, this shifting, harsh reality, seems to have only fueled her yearning for the dull, predictable parchment and gentle sweeps of charcoal. Things are simpler there, in her two-dimensional world of black and white, and---while Loki’s enthusiasm for art appears to have trickled to a stop like a well run dry---Y/N now spends most of her spare moments hunched over a notepad of some sort.

So far, she has worked steadily through four of them, despite---to conserve space---making sure to keep every sketch huddled so close to its predecessor they sometimes overlap.

Presently, Y/N has each book spread about her---for reference---the weak flame of her wax stick just about illuminating their smudged pages enough to make out the chaotic scramble of shapes. They look fuzzy in the soft light, half alive, like spectres, or shadows with no source. She is ashamed of many of them---embarrassed by their disfigurement---and the binding of each notepad is fluffy with stubs of torn-away sheets of parchment she’d banished in frustration.

She is tempted to remove the page she is working on at the moment, and takes it in finger and thumb as if to do so, but stops herself. Most of it is still fresh and vacant, and can be used for at least three other drawings if she keeps them clumped cosily together.

Sighing---which momentarily set the flame of her wax stick into a panicked frenzy---Y/N turned the notepad around and began the picture again. She can see where she had gone wrong. The mistake sits strangely with the rest of the image, ugly and ill-fitting, like a mangled limb. Loki had given her a wad of kneadable rubber that she could use to scrub away the lighter lines, but the heavier ones will just smudge should she attempt to remove them. She doesn't mind starting from scratch, anyway. It's not like she'd be able to sleep if she tried.

Her drawing is of the heavy-shouldered tomcat that keeps the servant’s kitchen free of mice in exchange for the occasional saucer of sour milk or scrap chicken bones to gnaw on. He turned up one day of his own vocation, so could be anywhere from a few months to sixteen years old. Some of the staff have bet coppers on his age, but they won't know how they faired until the cat stops showing up, which Y/N thinks is rather morbid. She had taken an instant liking to his wide, serious face, and she liked how his fur appearss to be dappled with light even when he’s in the shade.

She wanted to do him justice, so tried to imagine what Loki would say had this been one of their sketching sessions in his chambers.

 _'He'd probably say the cat looks like Ylva,'_ Y/N thought, and listened to her quiet laughter bouncing about the mess hall. 

Seriously, now: _'Then he'd advise me to plan the picture, and tease me when I complain that it's tedious.'_

She sometimes skips this step---setting out the ‘skeleton’ of the image---because she lacks patience, and she always ends up regretting it. She didn't this time, though, and remembered to map out each joint in the cat's legs with faint lines and circles first, as Loki had shown her back when he used to sketch with her.

He still does, in a way, sitting patiently by her side and watching with interest as she middles through slightly-wonky depictions of faces, or crude little illustrations of animals. Sometimes he'll even pluck up a stick of charcoal---if Y/N should need help with the rocky joints in a knuckle, or becomes stuck on the subtle curve of an ear. He'll lean over enough to be level with her sketchbook, his scent tickling her nose as he expertly fills in her gaps and gives her little hints; but his own parchment remains void of his own creations, and has existed in that state for several days.

He appears reluctant to paint, as well, although it isn’t clear whether the reason is down to unease gumming up his enthusiasm, or something else entirely. 

He acts differently when he doesn't want to paint to when he doesn't want to draw.

When he doesn't want to draw, he just _won't_ , preferring to contentedly follow Y/N's hand with his eyes instead, occasionally offering advice or helpful comments.

When he doesn't want to paint, though, he seems almost agitated, like a dog that can't find a comfortable place to rest.

Y/N can’t tell whether he has hit another inspiration block, or if he’s simply not in the mood. He won’t let her see the portrait anymore, either, which makes it even more difficult to tell the precise nature of the snag he's encountering.

“You may see it when it is finished. Have patience, Y/N, you are as restless as a child,” he drawls lazily, lips turned up slightly in what could be considered a smile.

But Y/N isn’t the restless one, _he_ is.

With every passing day, his patience seems to become thinner, his mood turning fickle and irritable as soon as he sits down to get a bit of the picture done. He’ll perch on the cushy lip of the chaise lounge, select a paintbrush from the masses surrounding his temporary work surface, then---after a few swift dabs---suggest they move onto something else.

Granted, the last time he had permitted Y/N get a look at the painting, it had appeared close to completion; perhaps there simply is little that needs to be added? But then, that raises the question: why not complete it all at once, now? Loki doesn’t seem to be wrestling with his usual perfectionism, rather, the canvas is repelling him like an opposing magnet.

That's one of those worries that keeps oozing its way into Y/N's consciousness uninvited, and she crushed it underfoot quickly. They keep doing that; erupting from her subconscious without cause or warrant, like spots on her cheeks or bubbles from the bottom of a stagnant pond. Each one brings familiar pinches of concern to various places on her person, and---as those familiar tightening sensations begin now---Y/N does her best to shove them aside. She has contemplated those worries enough already, so much so that there is nothing left inside them. They have been wrung dry, and to turn their withered husks over in her mind anymore would be an exercise in futility.

As she gently dragged the tip of her charcoal stick over the page, Y/N hunted around for something new to think about---something she hadn't yet exhausted---and Alfdis' earlier words presented themselves. Not just the important bits, but the rest of it, too, the parts Y/N had discarded at the time because she's been too distracted by thick chunks of her life crumbling around her.

Those main points of panic---the loss of her cushy life and best friend---have moved aside now, and, like thick clouds being brushed away by the wind, made way for the finer details of their conversation to finally enter Y/N’s consciousness.

Like the fact that Alfdis calls The Prince ‘Loki’. Well, her Old Asgardian accent actually curls it into something more closely resembling _‘Loak-ee’_ than _‘Low-key’._ Y/N felt a smile curve the lower half of her face. There’s something endearing about it, and she made a mental note to ask Loki more about the younger Alfdis next time she sees him; the Alfdis who‘d sneak him treats from the kitchen, who meets him for a tray of tea every now and again. The Alfdis who watched from the other side of the social-class-chasm as the spindly little boy with a crown too large for his head grew and blossomed into a man.

A charming, compassionate, thoughtful man with an infectious smile and humble ways. It’s no wonder Alfdis fell in love with that spindly boy. That’s probably how she knew Y/N would too.

Y/N had suspected Alfdis knew she loved Loki before---many times---but now she knows it to be true. That was alarming, but not because the punishment for disrespecting royalty is imprisonment---after all, if Alfdis was to have Y/N penalised for her misconduct, surely she would have done it by now? No, what was disconcerting was the fact that Alfdis knew there was something to punish _at all._ Loki’s chambers are impenetrable to most, so Y/N had assumed---and hoped---their friendship would go unnoticed.

How had Alfdis _known?_ Can she see through walls? Is she a psychic? Y/N has seen psychics at the market; eccentric, bead-riddled women draped in lucky charms and strings, surrounded by trinkets and colourful rocks they claim aids them in their readings. A chill dribbled down the back of Y/N’s neck at the thought of Alfdis somehow being able to read her mind, although, as far as she can remember, she’s never seen Alfdis wear so much as a pretty clasp in her hair, let alone a string of beads. And there doesn’t appear to be any colourful rocks or trinkets in her office, apart from a few clumsy homemade gifts from nieces and nephews.

So how had she known? Y/N mulled it over as she selected a finer charcoal stick from the pack. She was careful not to spill any black crumbs on the table because they could end up smudged on someone's uniform tomorrow. That hasn't happened yet, but it could. Y/N's intuition had warned her, and she'd listened. 

Perhaps that's how Alfdis had known. She isn’t the first to spook Y/N with unexpected intuition. Aasta, too, had been able to tell there’s a man on Y/N’s mind, and---if Loki is correct--- _she_ possesses no magical qualities. Maybe Alfdis is just also abnormally astute? 

After all, love does tend to cling to a person like sticky perfume. 

Y/N must reek of it.

…

Another thing Alfdis’ heightened intuition had correctly predicted was the rumours leaking from the palace and seeping into the surrounding lands. Not nearly a day after her talk with Y/N in the mess hall, gossip of Loki’s engagement---of an alliance---had begun to sprout all over the kingdom like ivy, penetrating each conversation and creeping its way into every home and at an undeniably alarming rate.

Y/N has observed that, so far, the general public appears to have divided itself neatly into two categories:

The first includes mainly grandparents; wizened older citizens with frown lines etched so deep they’ve become part of their personality. They are opposed to an alliance purely because of weary, sceptical prejudices against the Vanir. Centuries of conflict are not just fables to them, but real, solid memories. They seem to be in torn between racism, and devoted nationalism, but grudgingly supporting their king's decision because the alternative is being tried for treason.

The second group is of those that are not just in full support, but see the union as a reason for celebration. These tend to be merchants hungry for new trade, and scholars, youths, and medics hungry for knowledge. Too young to remember any real conflicts between their own kingdom and its neighbours, their heads are full of nothing but dreams of a prosperous, stable future.

A third category seems to have arisen, but Y/N isn’t sure whether its population is significant enough to call it that yet. She wasn’t even one hundred per cent sure it even _exists_ until recently, because it came about much more tentatively and quietly than the other two. It treads delicately under the radar of local authorities, its spread hesitant as it creeps from cautious mouth to possibly dangerous ear. As far as Y/N can gather, these people _doubt_ the Allfather’s decision, and some are against it whole-heartedly, fearing anything from unforeseen friction, to a hidden ulterior motive. Most people would call them sceptics, and wave them away with disinterest. The Palace Guards, however, would label them _‘traitors to the crown’._

Y/N is, perhaps---unwittingly--- the founder of this group. She was one of the first to get wind of the alliance, and first to declare it bullshit. At first, she had done so openly, but, after Alfdis’ warning, she now keeps her scepticism stuffed deep in the depths of her pockets where it burns through her clothes, insistently begging for attention. She’d like to talk about it, to complain about it, to set it free every now and again. She needs to, because she’s worried it’ll eat its way right through her if she doesn’t.

Thankfully, the opportunity came about all on its own one evening, whilst Y/N was whiling away the hours with Arne at _The Tipsy Dragon_.

 _The Tipsy Dragon_ is a local alehouse that, despite being insanely popular among the working class, Y/N had never actually stepped foot in before befriending the apothecary’s apprentice. 

It is a low, sturdy building mostly consisting of wood, flagstone, and stains that cause your shoes to cling to the floor and your mug to stick to the tabletop. Tucked out of the way down a meandering alley, _The Tipsy Dragon_ appears to have grown between two workshops like a tumour---although it predates them both by several thousand years. Y/N had instantly warmed to the low-ceilinged little building, and felt immediately welcomed by its friendly chatter, homey atmosphere, and affordable drinks.

Since agreeing to remain friends after their somewhat awkward attempt at romance, Y/N and Arne had become frequent patrons of _The Tipsy Dragon_ , meeting at their usual table two or three times a week.

On this particular day, the barkeep, Beca---a rowdy, dark-haired woman who’d lost an eye in a way that varies with every telling of the story---recognised Y/N as she entered, and asked her if she’d like the usual. Y/N thanked her, and picked her way through the gaggle of already-tipsy men and women to a table in the far corner of the room, where Arne greeted her with a smile. He already had a tankard in hand, and raised it in welcome as Y/N approached and slid onto the bench across from him.

“It’s busy tonight,” she observed, the corner of her lip twitching into a smile at the sounds of jubilant conversation emanating from the bar. Indeed, there were more drinkers than the usual gaggle, and they seemed to have emptied their tankards faster than usual too, because several were already leaning heavily on the bar, the backs of chairs, or on each other.

“They’re celebrating,” Arne shrugged, taking a sip from his tankard. The milk-coloured foam from the ale clung to the stubble on his top lip.

Y/N knew it to be his first drink of the evening, even if he had been waiting for her for some time. He drinks only as a formality; taking little sips so that he and Y/N are permitted to remain on the premises. 

A kingdom of long hours and busy, hard-working people, Asgard is limited where places to meet and socialise with friends are concerned. You flock to your local alehouse, or you mill about in the streets, and---now that summer was drawing to a close, Y/N knew which she would prefer. 

“Celebrating what?”

A look of brief surprise pushed Arne’s eyebrows up under his sun-stained fringe. “Haven't you heard?”

“Heard what?” Y/N feigned ignorance. She knew that the conversation was marching swiftly into ‘alliance’ territory, and was curious to test just how much the general public really knew about it. 

“That His Highness, Loki, is engaged to the princess of the Vanir. Or, he will be. It’s all just grainy speculation right now, but everyone knows about it, so there must be some truth to it.”

Y/N felt that familiar tightening sensation begin to gently squeeze her throat as though her scarf was knotted about her neck too tightly. She reached up to loosen it, only to find that she wasn’t wearing one. Pulling on that cloak of indifference she has become so used to wearing of late, she asked, sounding so casual it almost made her proud: 

“Ah, well, yes, that is worthy of a celebration. Will _you_ be celebrating? Surely this will be great for apothecaries; all those new medicines and recipes once a trade is established.”

Arne’s eyebrows were still hidden by his fringe, perhaps surprised or impressed---or both---with Y/N’s unexpected grasp of politics. However, they fell back down and furrowed into a slight frown, as if confronted with a maths problem he didn’t quite understand. “I’m not sure. Obviously, you’re right, the Vanir do have access to ingredients and knowledge that will benefit all professions greatly.”

Y/N waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “But?” She prompted.

Arne pulling himself out of a stupor. “But don’t you think it’s a little...weird? We’ve been suspended in a state of cold war with the Vanir for thousands of years---for so long that no one can remember a time we ever got along. Maybe we never did.” He cast a hurried look left and right, as if making sure they weren’t being listened to, then he uttered, quietly: “Does Odin really think a _wedding_ will mend that rift?”

Y/N had to catch herself quickly, stuffing _‘That’s what I said!’_ back down into her lungs. 

She tried to look as though she was considering it for the first time, then repurposed her words. “That’s a good point. I never understood alliances through marriage anyway. It’s not like Odin is going to be, like, _‘Oh, wait, I can’t invade the Vanir’s half of The Spice Trail because my son’s wife might get offended.’”_

At that moment, the barkeep, Beca, brought Y/N’s ‘usual’ over to the table---a non-alcoholic, heated drink served in a glass with a cinnamon stick. She blew a ringlet of hair away from her tawny forehead as she threw Y/N a knowing smile. It made the corner of her one good eye crinkle. “Are you two talking about the alliance?”

Arne was midway through another sip of his ale, and sputtered on it slightly, as though someone had just clapped him hard between the shoulder blades. Guiltily, he flushed under Beca’s gaze, a shy smile twitching his lip. “Maybe.”

Y/N knew why he’s---understandably---nervous; disrespecting your king is taken very seriously in Asgard. Where other kingdoms worshipped a High Mage, mythical deities, or the spirits in the trees, the Asgardians kneel only for their royals.

However, Y/N still almost laughed at him---in a teasing, good-natured way. It’s amusing to her; seeing such a large man appear so bashful, Arne’s blocky, sturdy body trying to shrink itself and getting nowhere.

He took another drink from his tankard as if hoping to hide behind it, looking like a cart-horse trying to conceal itself behind the spindly trunk of a crabapple tree.

“It’s all anyone talking about recently,” Beca sighed as if she was bored of the whole thing, plucking a greasy rag from her apron pocket. She began wiping their table with it, but the oily slip of material just shifted the stains around rather than removed them.

Y/N knew cleaning wasn't Beca's intent; she's just using it as an excuse to keep chatting, and Y/N lifted her glass, eager to hear what she had to say. If a particularly flavoursome rumour had spawned---as keeper of the most popular alehouse for several miles---Beca would have heard it.

She continued: “Honestly, I think it’s all a bit strange. A wedding might be enough to unite two opposing kingdoms in fay tales, but in reality?" She shook her head, and Y/N and Arne exchanged a look.

They were both in slight awe of her bravery and imagination. They had never heard someone call the alliance ‘strange’ before.

Tentatively, and curious about this new concept, Y/N asked: "You...you mean you don't think it'll work?" As Beca’s rag made its way to her side of the table for a second time, Y/N lifted her drink again by the handle, because the apple tea inside was still huffing out copious streams of steam.

Beca mopped below it, leaving the already-stained surface of the table dirtier than it had originally been. "It'll work as in it might make the Vanir slightly less estranged. But prevent wars? Bring everyone together so we're all sharing and caring after years of hatred? No way." She gave a quick glance over her shoulder, as Arne had done, but her mass of curly hair occupies so much space she probably couldn’t have seen anything, even if the tavern was suddenly full of The King’s Royal Guards. “If bringing everyone together was that easy, why hasn’t a treaty been arranged before?”

Y/N and Arne said nothing, because the barkeep has a point.

"You have to ask yourselves; why now? Why this way? What is Odin's plan?"

Arne was the first to process Beca’s words. Or tried to process them. He still looked puzzled. "You think The Allfather has an ulterior motive?"


	26. Chapter 26

Beca’s lip twitched at one corner, and it occurred to Y/N that she might be messing with them. “Do _you_ think the Allfather has an ulterior motive?” she sent Arne’s question back to him as though it was a ball she’d deflected with a well-timed kick.

He’s still taking the barkeep seriously; Y/N can tell by the knot between his eyebrows. After some time, he concluded thoughtfully:

“It’s a possibility.”

 _‘He’s right, regardless of whether Beca’s scepticism is genuine or not,’_ Y/N contemplated. Alfdis may defend Odin’s decisions with ox-like stubbornness, but the Allfather had lost Y/N’s trust as soon as he’d agreed to trade his youngest son like a bargaining chip. Just because he’s the _Allfather_ that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of wickedness. Perhaps he _is_ planning something. _‘That’s the only way this whole alliance thing could make any sense.’_

Y/N hid the bitter twist of her mouth with a sip of apple tea. The heat pricked her tongue, but the sweetness tended to the burn like honey easing a sore throat.

“If he _is_ up to something,” Arne began, his voice still low like an animal creeping tentatively from a hiding place, “what do you think it might be?”

Surprise flittered momentarily behind Beca’s one good eye, and Y/N rolled hers.

“She’s joking, Arne,” she said kindly, giving the broad back of his hand a little pat.

His cheeks coloured, and Beca wilted a little guiltily.

“Were you?”

“Yeah. Sorry, Arne; I’d just got sick of those drunks at the bar going on about it.” But then she said gently: “Just because _I_ don’t smell anything fishy about the alliance doesn’t mean there’s nothing to smell. I might just have poor senses. Do you follow?”

Sounding as sure as his words: “...I think so?”

Another futile glance about the room. “What I mean is: more people are sceptical about it than you might think.”

That made a swell of something hot blossom in Y/N’s chest, and it had nothing to do with her tea. She’s not the only one who regards the alliance with narrowed eyes? Others dare to question Odin’s authority? Not aloud, not publicly, clearly, but privately, quietly? Y/N’s frown almost turned up into a slight, hopeful smile. Her love-riddled heart isn’t the only reason for her unease; if others feel it too, perhaps there’s a real, justifiable reason?

“What are the other sceptics saying?” She estimated that Beca is only a few decades or so older than herself, and yet---looking up at the barkeep like this---she feels like a curious child begging for ghost stories.

Perhaps she is. 

Beca shifted her weight onto her other hip and stroked a finger and thumb down the point of her chin as though teasing a beard. “One man said he thinks the Allfather is trying to unite the kingdoms so he’ll have more warriors to combat a Frost Giant invasion.”

Y/N’s ears metaphorically pricked up. Her limited knowledge of Frost Giants stems from stories she’d been told as a child, and words that flitter about the streets.

From what she’s gathered, they come from a realm so cold, water does not flow, and if---by some miracle---a flower was to bloom, it would instantly turn brittle and shatter like thin glass. The people that live there are barely people at all; they’re towering monstrosities with limbs as thick and gnarled as the branches of an oak. Immune to the bite of the coldest cold, they dress in nothing but slips of fur, their skin---the colour of a glacier and twice as frigid---exposed indecently to the elements.

Asgard was at war with them several years before Y/N’s birth. The Jötunns had attempted to seize control of the Nine Realms, and Odin had led a hoard of warriors to quell them. Despite the Aesir emerging victorious, every inquiry Y/N has made after those battles were met with stony silence and an immediate, uncomfortable, awkward tension.

Many people died in that war. Many sons and fathers and friends.

The prospect of another one made a finger draw its way down Y/N’s spinal cord.

“But,” Beca added, her light tone shedding some much-needed sunshine on Y/N’s mental state, “I was like: you _really_ think Laufey will try anything after _last_ time? And why would they invade anyway? To get that cube thing back? What was it?”

“The Casket Of Ancient Winters,” Arne interjected.

“Yeah, that. Why would they want _more_ winter? Don’t they have enough of it already?”

“They could want our land?” Y/N suggested, but Beca shook her head.

“They’re _Frost_ Giants _._ They wouldn’t want our kingdom; it’s too hot for Jötunns here. Although, a Frost Giant invasion is more likely than what my friend said. She thinks the Allfather is trying to gain power with the Vanir so he’ll have a leg-up in a future invasion."

"Who does she think will do the invading? Us or the Vanir?”

“ _Us_ invading _them_ , for land and resources and all that lark." She sighed and drew back from wiping the table, flinging one end of the rag over her right shoulder. It disappeared into the mass of her hair, probably never to be seen again. "But it’s all just stuff an’ nonsense, Y/N, really.”

“Would it work, though? Would having your son married to the enemy’s princess give you a leg-up? Hypothetically.” 

The question sat on the table and they all stared at it for a bit.

Arne was the first to speak, and when he did it was unsure and tentative. “Maybe? The prince could relay messages, I guess; as a man on the inside.” Then he said, his hesitation hardened into confidence now: “But there’s no need for that. We already know the layout of the Vanir kingdom. And I if the prince’s wedding solidified trade routes between the kingdoms, we’d have access to all their resources anyway, so there would be no need to claim their land.”

Y/N almost muttered _‘Besides power’_ into her apple tea. Instead, she turned back to Beca. “What do you think? Did your friend have reason for suspicion? Or is she just a sceptic?”

Beca laughed; it was bubbly like the fizz in the ale she sells. “Ama is more than just a sceptic, she is _The_ sceptic. She was arrested, once, by The Palace Guards, but they deemed her so bonkers they just let her go.”

She must have noticed Y/N’s face fall, because a troubled look shaded her usually lucent face like a curtain drawn on the sky. “...Do you... _want_ there to be an ulterior motive?”

…

Y/N turned that question over in her mind for the rest of the evening, and then for most of the night. It was prickly in her hands, and she’d have liked to drop it but couldn’t; it stuck like a thistle covered in barbs.

She was still thinking about it on her way to Loki’s chambers the next morning.

An ulterior motive would mean Loki’s engagement is part of something greater, something more important and complex than a pathetic attempt at a peace treaty. That thought was pleasing.

However, if that ulterior motive was to defend against a hoard of advancing _Jötunns---_

Or to gain the upper hand over the unsuspecting Vanir---

Y/N's hand not clutching her mop and bucket found the rigid material of her uniform and clasped it as though it were a plush toy.

But, of course, Beca and Arne were right---she soothed---the Frost Giants have no reason to invade, and---with trade routes established, there’s no need to expand Asgard into the Vanir territory.

 _‘Besides for power’,_ that same, suspicious, bitter little part of Y/N’s brain hissed again, so sure of itself she almost heard it. Then she realised she _had_ heard it; she’d whispered it aloud, and fervently checked the corridor for anyone who may be listening, but, of course, found herself alone.

The hand gripping the starchy material of her dress fell to her side with an ache of grateful love for the deserted corridors. Y/N has almost become fond of them and the extensive route to Loki’s chambers over the past year. She likes the seemingly endlessness of it; each hallway like a golden stretch of road leading to a vacant, empty void. The nothingness eagerly swallows her words and thoughts, making her feel heard without anyone actually having to listen.

…

Y/N only travelled into market for cakes from Aasta’s stall, this morning, because Loki hadn't requested any new pigments for his painting. They had prepared a few light greens, several skin-shades, and one shadowy black the day before, but he had spent such a short amount of time before the canvas that most of them remained unused.

He’d covered the bowls carefully with a damp slip of material, explaining as he did so:

“They won’t be as smooth as they would have been fresh, but the areas I need them for are so small it won’t hinder the appearance of the painting at all.”

Y/N watched as he uncovered the bowls now, and they both leaned over to regard the contents. They’d acquired a glossy sheen; like the gummy film that forms over standing water.

“They’ll be fine once I mix them a bit,” Loki assured, probably catching Y/N’s expression.

The colours appeared dimmed, like neglected, grubby stained glass windows, but if anyone can bring them back to life, it would be Loki, Y/N believed. He has a way with the colours, as if each scuff of paint is a living creature; bacteria or the plankton in the sea. They may not look like much at the moment, but, under proper conditions---if treated just right---they have the capacity to glow.

“Are these the last colours?” Y/N asked hopefully as she gravitated over to the window seat. 

It has become instinct, now--- _market, corridors, dress, pigment, kiss, pose---_ to such an extent the little routine has grown a sense of immovable, unwavering, permanence. Like a mountain, or a gully carved into the land. Momentarily, Y/N forgot that with the completion of the portrait comes the end of their pre-portrait kisses. Her heart was, for a second, only filled with the joy of the painting, and the sweet promise of being able to see it again.

She wished she could somehow bring it to show her mother and her father. Y/N did not know whether they were in love, or if they had ever been, but she is sure they would recognise the passion Loki has for his craft interlaced with the purposeful brush strokes all the same. It was the first thing to grab Y/N’s attention when _she’d_ seen it for the first time, even though---then---it had been mere two-dimensional shapes. There is a purity to his love for his art, and it contrasts with the flavourless, methodical way most Asgardian professions are conducted. It's beautiful, and she wanted to share it with them, and to prove a point. _‘Look, Mother; there is more to life than scrubbing. And look, Father, men are capable of delicacy and compassion. Look, both of you; there can be more to life than greys and brown.'_

Loki had waited until Y/N was settled before delicately removing the cover he drapes over the canvas each night. To keep the dust away, he says, but Y/N knows it’s so she doesn’t get a peek at it before its done.

The pale disks of his eyes slid down the portrait. His gaze was so intense Y/N became afraid he’d burn two holes right through the canvas. “I’m not sure.”

There was another lengthy silence, but Y/N was used to them by now. The air hummed with Loki’s thoughts, to such an extent Y/N felt she could feel them brushing her exposed skin every now and again.

He looked as though he was going to estimate a day of completion, but said instead: “We shall see.”

“Well, _you_ shall see,” Y/N huffed, half playing with him, half-serious.

His lip only flickered with what could have been a smile, had he let it. Then he did smile, as he turned to Y/N, giving her his full attention now. She’s used to that too, immunised to the pure concentration of it as one’s skin darkens to bare the sun’s rays.

Excitedly, Y/N moved forwards on the window seat until she was perched stiffly on the lip of it, her body already buzzing with that familiar crackle of anticipation of what was is to come.

Loki crossed over to her in a few long, soundless strides and took a knee, those jade green eyes suddenly level with Y/N’s own.

Automatically, Y/N’s hand took the cool ridge of his jawline. She felt the weight of his head, this time, as though he was pushing into her palm, seeking it out. She would have thought about it more had she not already tugged him close enough to catch his lips.

He kissed her for a long time, for so long she wondered---half-heartedly---if she might drown in him. She wouldn't mind. It would probably feel like drowning in a serene, cool pool of water collected at the roots of a mountain.

Y/N smiled as she pulled away. “You had chocolate for breakfast.”

“Pastry twists _with_ chocolate, actually, but close. And you had…” The pink slip of Loki's pointed tongue slid experimentally over his bottom lip as if trying to recall Y/N's taste.

The back of her neck heated.

“Kindling?”

“Grain.”

The prince's right hand moved the pads of its thumb and forefinger over one another as if imagining hard little kernels of corn rolling back and forth between them.

"You crush the grain up until it's a sort of power,” Y/N clarified, noting his puzzlement, “then mix it with water and bake it as a sheet. When it's dry you crunch it all up so it's little flakes. You have them with milk. I like to mush them all into it with the back of my spoon until they’re soggy.”

“That’s disgusting; I’d be having words with Yllva if she wasn’t so scary. And almost as tall as me.”

Y/N laughed, although she wasn’t one hundred per cent sure he was joking. “Surprisingly, they’re kind of nice. She grinds salt up in them, and for once it actually improves the taste.”

Loki’s large, pale hand dismissed this comment as though it were an irritating moth. “No, you shall breakfast with me from now on. I’ll bring food up here from the royal kitchens---”

“And what about when you leave?” It cut through the soft stillness of Loki's chambers like a plate shattering on the hard golden flooring.

Loki remained behind his easel, and said nothing. The gauzy sleeves of his shirt were rolled up just past his pointed elbows, one of which shifted slightly as he pressed the first dabs of paint onto the canvas. 

Regret gnawed at the fringes of Y/N’s mind. They’ve frayed in recent weeks---the edges of her mind---becoming unravelled and matted like the seams of her stockings she’s repeatedly darning. 

She felt a strong, sudden urge to apologise, although she’s not sure what for. Instead, she cleared her throat. "Have you heard anything about a possible Frost Giant invasion?" 

The acute angle of Loki's elbow halted, and he leaned to the side, giving Y/N a questioning look.

She wondered if he had been alive for the most recent war with the Jötunns. If he was, he must have been only a babe.

"No. Why? Have you?"

Y/N shook her head, then made sure to put it straight back where it had been; slightly tilted, the curve of her skull leaning nonchalantly against the wall behind it. She didn’t _feel_ nonchalant, but a sense of relief did wash over her body at Loki’s words, loosening it. At least that’s one less thing she has to worry about. "No. I was just wondering whether the Allfather has a reason. For wanting to form an alliance after all these years."

Loki pieced her implications together with ease, and he returned to the painting. “I think his reason is peace.”

“Do you?” 

Again, Loki’s arm faltered. “Yes. An alliance with the Vanir could prevent wars. It will benefit trade and medicine and---”

It’s that same speech, that same string of words. They’re everywhere, tangling Asgard---and Y/N---in tight knots. “You’re starting to sound like your father,” she quipped, then bit her tongue, hard. She could feel Loki’s frown through the canvas, through the layers and layers of carefully placed paint.

It is an unspoken truth, she’d realised early on, that the youngest prince of Asgard does not look up to his king. To compare Loki’s flexible, calculated ways to Odin’s harsh, brutish nature is an insult, and she knew she’s very close to toeing a line.

“I didn’t mean that,” she said quickly.

“I know.”

Without seeing them, Y/N knew his shoulders had sagged. He reminded her of a tree bowing down for the wind.

“And I know why you said it, but I don’t sound like my father, I sound like my mother. She keeps pleading with me to find the situation’s silver lining, but all I can see is an impending storm.”

“You are struggling to find the good, and yet you let it go on?”

“There is no alternative.”

“Can they really force you, though?” The frustration simmering just below Y/N's surface bubbled, hot and irritated.

Seeing a member of the royal family---gods, to the common people---so easily crushed by the power of tradition and politics, has quelled her spirit in a way she can not describe. She doesn't want to live only to serve others, to marry because it's practical. But Loki has to, and he is a _prince_. If he does not have the right to a life to the beat of his own drum, what chance does _Y/N_ have? Does _anyone_ have?

Loki leaned aside. “No one can force me to do anything,” he had almost growled, as though making sure Y/N remembered it.

Then his face fell back to that wrung-out look he wears when he thinks Y/N isn’t looking. He hides it from her, and is under the impression she hasn’t noticed, but she has, and it causes a stinging sensation in the corners of her eyes as if someone close by is slicing onions.

“But you must remember, Y/N, that I am a son of Odin, even if I may not act like it.”

She flushed, the memory of the passionate, ungentlemanly way he’d pulled her into the curve of his body only moments ago igniting in front of her mind’s eye. One day that will stop, and the solid strength of his chest, the soft scent of his clothes, the shield of his wide shoulders will be nothing but a bittersweet memory. 

"I have duties and responsibilities to tend to."

"Your duties lie here, with your kingdom." 

"My duties lie wherever Odin places them. Do you really want me to refuse the Vanir princess? Would you be willing to face the consequences?”

They’d had this argument several times, and each ends in them continuing whatever they’d been doing in silence for several minutes, both not really avoiding conversation but not encouraging it either. Usually, Y/N lowers her eyes meekly to the floor and patiently waits for the awkwardness to pass as if it's a spell of bad weather.

But this time she held his gaze. “Yes. A wedding isn’t going to make any difference. If tensions rise between the kingdoms, a slim metal band isn’t going to be enough to hold them together.”

"Don’t you think I’ve pointed that out to Father already?”

It was then that Y/N had realised Loki’s submission to his betrothal was not just an attempt to keep the peace between two kingdoms, but to keep the peace between the members of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so fuckin' long, it's going to get more sexy/interesting, honest


	27. Chapter 27

By Friday, Loki still had not declared the painting complete.

He spends less and less time on it, his long, lean body restless and antsy, as if the divan he sits at is lumpy and uncomfortable; which Y/N knows for a fact it is not. It is his mind that is uncomfortable---stewing in anxieties, no doubt, the whole thing churning away inside his skull.

Y/N almost wishes he would start another painting, just so he has something fresh to cleanse his thoughts.

Due to Loki’s lack of ability to settle, the hours they would have spent crushing pigments, painting, and posing, are now empty---although the prince has yet to run out of things to fill it with.

They clean his chambers, mainly, frightening away the shadows with playful banter and raucous behaviour. Loki has tipped many buckets of water over the floor since the first time, some to clean it and others just to get on Y/N’s nerves.

He likes _getting_ on her nerves, and she likes him _being_ on her nerves. Despite the fact that he’s trying to rile them up, his sharp quips actually soothe them like ice pressed to a bruise.

She always gets her own back, anyway; by leaving ‘T’s out of words, and refusing to take the coins he attempts to press into her palms when she leaves each evening.

_"Please, let me pay you."_

_"For what? Jesting and teasing you all day?"_

_"For making me smile."_

_"Loki, your smile_ is _payment."_

Their other activities mainly include helping Y/N with her sketches, consuming the various treats she brings back from Aasta’s stall, and making use of the plethora of amusing gadgets the prince has collected over the years. Y/N remains fond of the telescope, and they have spent many hours spying on the unsuspecting people far below Loki's bay windows.

Despite enjoying their new pass times, the portrait still prods at Y/N’s conscience like thorns caught in the knit of her clothes. She wonders if Loki will manage to complete it before he goes to the Vanir kingdom.

…

Y/N dislikes Fridays, and dreads them as most Asgardians dread the beginning of the week.

Well, Y/N dreads Friday _evenings_. They are the furthest point from her next trip to Loki’s chambers, and, although she does manage to occupy herself over the weekend, she’d rather the familiar shape of the youngest son of Odin be there with her.

She’d like to take him to all the places she knows he has not been or can not go. Like the farms scattered at the foot of the hill, or the centre of the market, or the docks down by the bay. Places Frigga has not permitted him to explore should he sully his shoes, or places Odin has not permitted him to frequent should he sully his name.

Like _The Tipsy Dragon._ He would look amusingly out of place there, his serene, refined features contrasting starkly with the grubby, general stickiness of the squat little building, his silken voice crisp amongst drunken mumblings. He’d like it there, she thinks, at least for a little while, while its novel and new and novice. He'd ask Beca how she lost her eye, and she'd spin him some kind of yarn that might be true and might not.

She thinks he’d like the farms too, the cows with their broad, moist noses, the curious chickens, the endless patchwork quilt of swaying wheat. He'd probably see a beauty in the colours, or the texture of the grass.

If she could take him to the docks, she’d show him how to pick his way through the rivers of salty blood and scales until they get to the jetties leading out into the water. You can buy cockles and little creatures you slurp from a shell for a few coppers, or potatoes that have been cut and fried. 

Y/N had wondered about going down to the docks on this particular Friday evening, as a way to avoid whatever monstrosity Yllva had managed to concoct with the few remaining items from this week's store. She had decided against it, however. Despite being well and truly into the tail end of the summer months, today had been obnoxiously hot, and Y/N doubted she would be able to stomach the stench of the fish market as it stewed below the evening sun. So, instead, tray in hand, she joined the end of the line for Yllva's latest concoction.

She had moved barely three places down the string of hungry servants before something like a bird seemed to land on her shoulder.

Y/N turned and came face to face with Alfdis.

She wore an expression Y/N didn’t recognise. "Y/N, there's someone to see you."

A few curious heads turned in Y/N’s direction, even though the head housekeeper had spoken in an intentionally low voice.

Mental pictures flicked past Y/N's mind's eye quickly, and she regarded them curiously. Are her parents visiting? They haven't before, but there's a first time for everything. Has Arne come to drag her to the tavern? Y/N instantly brightened; perhaps Beca could whip her up something simple in the pub's rudimentary little kitchen?

"Who is it?" She asked, but got no answer.

Alfdis just made a little _‘follow me’_ motion and started weaving her way towards the exit.

Y/N hurried after her, dropping her empty tray back on the pile.

…

Alfdis closed the mess hall door and lead Y/N down a few hallways until they reached her office.

Y/N stopped in her tracks.

A tall, lean man all dressed in green, with raven-black hair was waiting for her. His china-cup skin stood out against the scuffed flagstone floors and chipped, stained paintwork, and the ceiling is an inch away from being too low for him.

“Loki?” Y/N came over to him quickly, a smile already blooming all over her face. “What are you doing down here?”

Then her eyes met the pink line of his lower lip captured between the two smooth ridges of his teeth, and her grin faltered. Gently, she reached up the long pillar of his body and freed it. The bitten skin felt rough below the pad of her thumb, ragged and tatty like her unravelling nerves.

“What’s wrong?”

Alfdis was watching their exchange carefully, but Loki didn’t push away from Y/N’s tender touch, and when he spoke, it was thick with all the fondness he harbours for her over.

“Y/N, I need to talk to you.”

…

The head housekeeper allowed them to use her office, and closed the door respectfully behind herself as she took leave without having to be asked.

Loki moved a few heaps of parchment delicately from Alfdis’ desk so he could perch on it. His eyes are level with Y/N’s own, now. The chips of jade that are his irises seem dull and wetted, as though they’d been dropped in the ocean and rubbed down to smooth pebbles by the waves.

Y/N took his arm and gave him a little shake.

He let it oscillate through him.

“Loki, you’re scaring me.”

“Y/N, a date has been settled. I have until the first full moon of Spring.”

Y/N’s hand on his forearm tightened on the soft green cloth. It felt like water between her fingers.

“There will be a summons tomorrow morning; everyone in the kingdom is invited to the palace courtyard to watch Father give a speech, but I wanted to deliver the news to you myself.”

The last few words were muttered onto Y/N’s head, her having fallen forwards to seek comfort from the solidness of his chest. His arms came about her immediately, pulling her between his thighs, his nose finding the crook of her neck.

Into the charcoal-black locks of his hair, Y/N let herself weep.

…

As promised, the announcement was given at breakfast the next morning. 

It was an ideal day for an announcement, seeing as the majority of the servants take Saturday off so were there to hear it. It was presented by Yllva, her voice--- gritty from a dedicated smoke leaf habit---managing to grate against even the furthest corners of the mess hall. 

She read from a crisp sheet of white parchment delivered by one of the palace messengers. Several complicated words tripped her up, and she stumbled a few times over the sloping, looping cursive, but no one laughed.

No one dared laugh, and no one wanted to. Rumours of an alliance had been passed about the servant’s quarters like an obscure ball game for the past few days, but now the game has come to a sudden and abrupt halt. All ears, young and old listened as Yllva staggered her way through the Allfather’s message, all eyes fixed on her towering figure with unwavering seriousness.

Yllva delivered the last line of the summons after what felt like hours, although it could only have been several seconds.

The message was clear and concise, simply inviting everyone in the kingdom to take a half-hour or so off to watch the Allfather give an address to his kingdom in the royal courtyard. The reason for the summons could be deduced easily, and a tension charged the mess hall like a balloon at capacity.

It was only when Yllva rolled up the parchment and disappeared with Alfdis into the kitchens---to discuss what they had just heard, no doubt---that anyone dared to utter a word. The room came to life as though reanimated, conversations ranging from sceptical to excited buzzing into the air like startled insects.

Y/N said nothing and continued to methodologically scoop porridge into her mouth. She’d thought having her friend taken away from her would numb her appetite, but all it seems to have done is widened the void.

…

Yesterday’s last attempt at a heatwave before the winter continued well into the night, and it was still stiflingly warm as Y/N set off with everyone else to the royal courtyard.

There really was no reason for her to attend. She knew what was to be said; hearing it again would just be a prickly handful of salt rubbed into her gaping wound. However, she shall go anyway, and was adamant of the fact; she hopes Loki will feel that she is there in the crowd, somewhere.

Overnight, silky white and gold banners seemed to have sprouted from everything a tac could be forced into, the kingdom’s sigil rippling with summer’s last humid breaths. Bunting weaves overhead, leaping from building to building and tying the city in ribbons, the Asgardian flag fluttering high and proud from everything even resembling a flagpole.

Walking in silence alone, Y/N caught snippets of the conversations around her, and listened with glum interest. Many were adults happily listing things they hoped to get a hold of and or sell if trade routes are established with the Vanir; a salve that could soften the toughest callous, a prickly fruit named after an extinct species of dragon, a cloth as strong and soft as the silk of a spider, etcetera. Others were young people eager to be witnessing something so significant, made over-excited and hyper by the break from routine. Y/N heard a group of adolescent girls hypothesizing about what the young Vanir men might look like---sparsely clothed, with sun-darkened skin as rich as cocoa---and, had the circumstances been different, she probably would have felt herself smile.

...

Y/N was one of the first few hundred people to take up a spot in the royal courtyard, and watched as more filed in like migrating geese coming to rest in a field.

The palace courtyard is like a field, in a way; a vast stretch of nothingness, the ground flat and barren and lifeless. It consists of many thick marble slabs pressed into the earth, and Y/N claimed one as close to the front as she could get, and planted herself there like a stubborn acorn growing roots no matter where it is dropped.

As the palace grounds became swelled with its subjects, Y/N felt herself get nudged and jostled from all angles, but she held her place firmly. She doubted Loki would be able to make out her face amongst the hundreds. No, she held her place because she wants to get a good look at the Allfather, this man who rules their kingdom from a golden tower, this man most have never seen.

Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, Y/N still has a while to wait before anything of interest happens, even though the grounds are close to capacity. It’s as if the people surrounding her are part of a massive organism; scales of a butterfly’s wing or cells in a leaf.

Y/N does not feel as though she is a part of it. She is an outside party, an imposter. She has seen behind the metaphorical curtain. She has had the betrothed prince’s tears stain her bodice. Everyone is happy but she knows he is not, and Y/N wonders if they will realise that when he walks out behind his father.

Eventually, a door swung open, and the crowd fell silent as though a thick blanket had suffocated their conversations.

Every head turned to watch a chain of royal guards flow out of the palace and arranged themselves to form a neat line along the entire length of the steps.

Y/N couldn't tell if they were for protection or show. Perhaps both. They are each holding an Asgardian flag, but, upon closer inspection, Y/N realised the tips of every pole is sharpened into a needle-thin spearhead.

Odin looks shorter than Y/N remembered from the few times she glimpsed him, she thought absently as he made his way across the broad length of the front steps. They serve as a stage at times like these, their golden sheen throwing the sun back up into the sky. Y/N suspected the temperature doubles atop them, amongst their glaring reflections, and wondered whether Odin was sweating, encased in his thick shell of his armour.

 _‘Why wear armour to deliver good news?’_ It makes him appear standoffish and withdrawn from the common man; as though he expects one of them to spring forth and attack at any moment. Or that they have some disease he doesn’t want to contract.

The Allfather drew to a stop perfectly in line with the centre of the courtyard. The stairs below him continued to gleam as if mocking him, but he did not narrow his eyes.

Once, Y/N had been the one to make those steps gleam like that. She almost wished, bitterly, that she had been the one to make them gleam like that today. It would have been nowhere near closure, but a small personal win all the same.

A little way behind him, keeping a respectful few steps between herself and her husband, came Frigga. In lieu of a crown, her hair had been twisted into a thick, complicated ring about her head. She wore a gown rather than armour, the material soft and smooth and pearl white, the Asgardian sigil delicately embroidered on a golden sash hanging over her heart.

Together, Odin and Frigga's outfits make the flag of the realm, Y/N realised.

A tall, thewy young man followed Frigga, closer than she had followed Odin. Y/N knew this to be Thor, their eldest child. He wore an outfit much like his father's, but the arms were sleeve-less and the lighter metal a deep silver. It appeared to be designed for actual fighting, and the heavy cape pinned at his broad shoulders was a liquid red either from dye or blood.

Despite this, where his parent’s expressions had been flat and unmovingly sombre, Thor’s white teeth caught the sun every now and again as he threw smiles to the crowd.

Y/N wondered if he’ll be chastised for that later.

Behind Thor came Loki, dressed as usual all in green. He did not smile.

It had not crossed Y/N’s mind that Loki would own armour, but, being a prince, he obviously does. In spite of the heat, it covers most of him; moss-green cloth ending at his wrists and disappearing into the black leather of his boots. Like his father’s, his armour doesn’t appear to be designed for fighting. It isn’t plated, rather, the slim, sparse sheets of metal are slotted together over his chest and arms in careful patterns, his cape attached to bulky shoulder pads.

 _'They're still not bulky enough'_ Y/N thought, _'They'll never be large enough to support the responsibility Odin is placing on them.'_

The royals stood for a moment, all in a line as if waiting for silence, although the hush in the air was already suffocatingly still. Y/N found it amusing how they seemed to form some sort of gradient; Odin’s hair as colourless as a phantom, Frigga and Thor’s as gold as the steps they stood on, and Loki’s so dark it swallows the light whole.

She can see part of Frigga in Thor---the curve of her nose, the wide set of her jaw, but little else. Loki resembles her more closely, but in the way he holds himself, in the expression behind his eyes.

Y/N has never heard the Allfather give an address before, and---despite the circumstances---could not ignore her roused curiosity. His scars, the metal disk over one eye---Loki’s stories---paint him as a brutal, dominating leader. Y/N expected him to have an equally dominating and brutal voice, but, when he did speak, it was with calculated control and a quietness that made everyone lean forwards a few inches to catch his words.

“My people,” he began, and the courtyard erupted with adoring applause. He let them continue for several beats, and then raised both arms wide.

As suddenly as they had began, the cheers ceased.

...

Y/N listened as Odin spoke.

First, he addressed the rumours, listing the most common ones that have been flittering about like pigeons. He declared most of them true, which brought on more waves of applause, more excitable this time, and it took several seconds of his arms spread wide to settle everyone back down again.

Y/N remained silent, watching him.

When he closes his mouth it disappears in his beard, as colourless as his hair. The tiled armour on his arms snakes up them like scales.

She may not like what he is saying, but Y/N had to admire the way he said it. He methodically mentioned each war between the Aesir and Vanir, and did not shy away from each party's previous resentment. He appeared aware that many are sceptical of the neighbouring kingdom and those that inhabit it, and embraced it, stressing how an alliance will finally heal those wounds. His sentences were so heavily peppered with the word _'peace'_ that it began to lose all meaning. He spoke of a positive future---a brighter, more enlightened Asgard---in such a way that Y/N almost believed him.

“The union shall be held at the border, on the first dawn of the coming spring’s lunar cycle," he eventually concluded. "All citizens from both kingdoms are welcome to attend. Details will be posted as soon as they have been drawn up. Please be respectful of our new brother's and sister's customs, as I am sure they will be respectful of ours.”

The Allfather gave a final bow of his head, and applause flared up once more.

...

Throughout it all, the heat, the words, the grinning faces, Loki had stood tall, and Y/N felt a swell of pride for him.

It pains her she will have to wait until Monday to tell him so. 


	28. Chapter 28

Y/N whiled away the remainder of Saturday sketching, and then whiled away the first few hours of Sunday sketching as well, using up three wax sticks before falling into bed. Her stomach ached with an empty feeling that she knew had nothing to do with hunger, and she woke early from a shallow sleep. She spent the rest of the day helping Arne man Frode’s stall over the weekend shift. Arne appreciated the help and Y/N appreciated the distraction. Even so, while she handed vials to customers, or refilled bottles with tonics, she still found her mind wandering to Loki. She hoped that, after the announcement yesterday, he had sought the company of his brother, or mother, or anyone else that would bring him some source of comfort. But she knew him well, and predicted that he had not.

Several times, she wondered about finding a way to sneak up to his chambers and be with him. She'd have an excuse ready, should she be stopped and questioned---

_‘His Royal Highness requested that I work a few hours on weekends.’_

_‘I was given silver to polish and I’ve finished, so I’m returning it.’_

' _The Young Prince summoned me to clean up a spill of wine.’_

But all these statements seemed so flimsy in Y/N’s head they'd probably fall to pieces if she tried to bring them into reality. Some small part of her was glad for that; she was almost scared to go up to Loki’s chambers when he wasn’t expecting her, just in case he _had_ been at the wine. To see him in such a state would break her heart.

…

Eventually, Monday dawned, and after a quick scrub in the washrooms, a chewy breakfast of dark bread, and a quick sprint to Aasta's stall, Y/N grabbed her bucket and mop from the storeroom.

The trek seemed to take longer than usual; had Y/N known better she would have suspected the hallways to be playing tricks on her; elongating and curling around and in on themselves just to watch her scurry down them like a ladybird over a child’s hand.

The door to Loki’s chambers opened as her hand reached out to take the handle.

He stood there, bleary-eyed and dishevelled. Y/N nearly wept to see him in such a way; his hair and clothing usually impeccable like well-preened feathers.

“I haven't been sleeping well,” he explained before she could ask, and Y/N’s shoulders loosened thankfully.

At least he hadn’t been drinking. She knew spirits would have little effect on him, and yet the possibility of him forming some kind of unhealthy vice still gnawed at Y/N’s brain whenever she had to leave him alone for the night---or, in this case, the weekend.

Loki must have noticed Y/N’s obvious relief, because he frowned at her as she entered his chambers. “Thank you for the sympathy.”

“No, I’m just glad that---” not wanting to give him any ideas, she bit that sentence off rather hurriedly, “Never mind.”

Loki’s curiosity would usually have prompted him to enquire further, but he didn’t, he just nudged the door shut with his foot and rubbed at one eye with his bony knuckle.

Y/N’s eyes roved his chambers, but found them to be more or less in order. In fact, they were more in order than usual; no dirty laundry waiting to be freshened, no balls of parchment strewn like snow, no ashes in the fire and no dirty pots from preparing a meal.

Y/N frowned. "What have you been doing for two days?"

He shrugged. "Nothing."

“Have you eaten?”

Loki shook his head, his somewhat mattered hair falling into his eyes but he made no move to brush it away. It looked like it was in need of washing. “No.”

“Have you bathed?”

“No.”

Taking his hand, Y/N began leading him to his washroom. He stumbled along behind her, pliantly letting her deposit him by the swimming pool-like dip in the tiled floor. When she released his hand, he just stood there, watching her as she crouched by the taps.

“Cold, right?” she clarified, and he nodded.

She ran the faucet, glad that she would not have to stoke a fire for hot water, and regarded the multitudinous array of glass bottles surrounding the bath. Several were labelled, and she selected a few, tipping a little of the contents into the water. Mounds of bubbles began to form, a sweet scent filling the little room, and Y/N stood.

“You bathe, I’ll get you some breakfast.”

Loki took the bottom of his moss-coloured shirt and lifted it neatly over his head, letting it fall to the floor. “Thank you.”

Cheeks searing, Y/N focused on plucking it up, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered to the gauzy fabric. It was as light as a shadow in her fingers.

“Do you have any food here?” she asked, turning her back to him so that he could undress. She could hear him unlacing the ties of his trousers, the smooth string sliding free from the soft cotton. She wondered if they were the same trousers he’d tugged on after his father’s announcement on Saturday.

“There’s some shortbread rounds in the lounge.”

“Biscuits aren’t breakfast.”

Y/N didn’t have to look at him to know his lip was ghosted with a smile. “Agree to disagree.”

There was another sound of light material hitting the floor, and then bare feet on tiles as Loki crossed over the bath. It had filled quickly, the taps as thick as the branches of a birch tree.

“You can look now, by the way,” he said after a moment, and Y/N turned to see him submerged to his collarbones in the fragrant, frothy water. He’d dipped his head below the surface at some point, his hair now hanging in a shiny, pitch-black sheet.

That water comes right off the mountains, Y/N knew; a frigid smoothie of bitter snow and melted glacial ice funnelled directly into the palace. Despite this, the prince lowered himself further until his pointed chin caressed the bubbles.

“I’ll go down to the kitchens and fetch you something. Will the palace cooks still be serving?”

“They serve whenever they are asked to serve.”

Y/N turned to leave, but turned around as she reached the door. She regarded him, looking up at her from the water, and he did not move. “If I go do that, will you actually wash your hair or will you just sit there?”

Loki might have shrugged, but his shoulders were hidden below a layer of foam. Pale and glistening, he looks like a merperson trapped in a tub, yearning for the freedom of the ocean.

Y/N sighed and kneeled at the lip of the bath. “Come here.”

He obeyed, moving over to Y/N soundlessly. He looked up at her, confused until she motion for him to turn around, and---understanding now---he did, presenting Y/N with the back of his head. 

She dipped her hands in the bathwater, to wet them wincing at the bite of the cold, then gestured at the many bottles to her right. “Which one is for your hair?”

“Most of them.”

Sighing, Y/N picked one at random. “This one?”

“Yes, but that’s conditioner.”

“What’s the difference?”

Loki didn’t reply, just reached behind himself with one hand and passed Y/N a vial. The glass was tinted purple but when she tipped some of the substance onto her palm it was bright blue. It oozed with the laziness of honey, and smelt of lavender and cracked pepper.

“Are you just going to sulk all day?” She teased in an attempt to lighten his mood. Although, the Gods know he has a right to sullenness. When _Y/N's_ parents had sent _her_ to work for the palace, she’d spent every day leading up to her first shift in stony silence too.

Again, Loki said nothing, and Y/N rubbed the blue liquid between her hands until it formed a lather. She’d never used liquid soap before, least of all shampoo, but figured it to be roughly the same as the harsh bar of caustic soap she uses on herself morning and night.

She began massaging the lather into Loki’s hair. Her fingers are well familiar with its softness from their countless kisses, but its different now that its wet---as slick and fine as the skin of a snake---and still sent tingles to her elbows.

After some time, she said, seriously now: “I was really proud of you on Saturday. I was there in the crowd.” She wondered if Loki would merely hum, but he said quietly instead:

“I know.” He tipped his head back a little as Y/N began working the foam into his roots. His eyes had closed. “I couldn’t look because I wasn't allowed to, but I did see you.”

“How?” She laughed. "There were thousands of people.”

“Thousands of insignificant people.”

…

Y/N kneaded the shampoo into Loki’s hair until she ran out of foam to knead, then pushed herself up from the floor.

“You can manage the rest yourself, I gather?” She asked, not daring to let herself imagine aiding the prince to cleanse anywhere below the column of his neck.

He smirked as though he was about to suggest something, then noticed Y/N rubbing the grooves the tiles had pressed into the skin of her knees, and nodded. “Yes, I think I'll muddle through.”

“Okay, I’ll go get you some breakfast.”

“Bring something for yourself too. One can not live off flakes of grain.”

She left him to wash out the shampoo from his hair, then fetched some clean clothes from his bed-chamber and left them outside the bathroom door.

Despite never having set foot in the royal kitchens, Y/N had little trouble locating them. She just followed the rich scent of fried eggs, the lingering whiff of bacon, the tang of roasted bell peppers and a hundred other delicacies she could not place. The flavours teased her throat as she breathed them in, so thick she almost poked out her tongue to taste the air.

She found the dining hall first, a vast cavern of a room that was either plated in gold or possibly just made out of it. Thankfully it was empty besides busy staff wiping down the gargantuan stretch of a table tracing the centre of the room. Shyly, she stopped a passing maid and asked for directions.

The maid pointed Y/N towards a line of tapestries, and, sure enough, a manservant came from the slit between the last two, having parted them like a curtain.

As Y/N trekked across the hall, she thought about the maids darting about around her with bowls and rags and lemon polish. If Y/N works hard, will that be _her_ duty, one day? Will it be _her_ job to dispose of the king’s leftovers, each pound of food she dumps into a bus box worth more than her weekly salary? When Loki is gone, and she is a cleaner once more, should she even bother to work her way up the servant ladder? If Loki is not waiting at the top of it, what is the point?

Then again, what _else_ could she do? Perhaps she could go back to being a kitchen maid and find a job in a local tavern or inn. It would be a step down---her parents would say---but Y/N suspected she’d feel more at home in a lodging house packed with travellers and merchants than she would in the royal palace. It’s ironic how the only thing in its gargantuan gold walls that ever made Y/N feel warm is a prince too cold to make a heat engine turn.

When Y/N reached the tapestries she pushed the thick material aside the manservant had done, the scent of food so strong now she almost choked on it.

Inside was a kitchen a lot like the one in the servants quarters, but larger, so much large Y/N could not see the other end of it. Everything gleamed, crisp and clean, and taps with real running water lined one wall. Gods know what Yllva would do to work in this kitchen. She wouldn’t be able to, though, because cooperation and collaboration appear to be key in _this_ workspace; her hard attitude and control-issues would jam up this well-oiled machine.

The royal kitchen staff were preparing for the king’s luncheon, apparently, flittering about like birds working together to build a humungous, complex nest before winter hits. No-one stopped Y/N as she located the storeroom and bundled an armful of ingredients into a cotton net bag and took them back to Loki’s chambers. Perhaps they were used to servants fetching snacks for Their Majesties, or perhaps there was just such an abundance of food no one cared if a hungry servant nabbed a few things.

Y/N took more than a few things, and began setting them out in pots once she returned to Loki’s rooms. She lit a fire in the hearth and hung the pots from a framework of poles, mixing what needed to be mixed and turning what needed to be turned. Accustomed to holing himself up in his rooms for apparently days on end, the prince’s cupboards were well stocked with crockery and seasonings, and---when he emerged from the washroom---a laden tray was waiting for him.

Leaving Loki’s food to cool but not wanting hers to get cold, Y/N had begun her meal and was almost finished as he padded over to the sofa she sat at on bare feet.

He smiled and thanked her, looking less drawn out now that he'd bathed, as though the cold water had washed away some of his wanness. He pushed his wet hair away from his face as he hungrily tucked into his meal.

“That’s good,” Y/N commented, trying to stab a piece of egg with her fork. It was the best meal she had ever eaten, despite having only permitted herself burnt scrapings and unwanted leftovers that she could not have fitted onto Loki’s plate. “I thought I’d have to force-feed you.”

“I could never refuse something so lovingly crafted.” He smiled again, watching a globule of rich cheese stretch between his knife a round of white toast. “Nor something so delicious.”

Flattered, Y/N reminded herself to thank her mother for her cooking lessons.

…

Y/N had let the fire consume itself, the flames having long since pittered out, but the embers and hot coals kept the room warm, and Loki’s hair was soon dry. He appeared to have merely scrubbed it with a towel because it frizzed about his head, a chaotic scramble of black lines. Y/N excused herself and fetched the boar-hair brush from his room, and held it out to him.

He batted it away as though it were paperwork he was putting off. “There is no need; I have no audiences until at least Wednesday.”

“It’ll get all matted.”

“So I’ll cut it off,” he replied simply, and Y/N almost growled at him.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He raised one dark brow. He’d cleared his plate now, except for a wedge of honeycomb for his pancakes, and popped it in his mouth, then licked the syrup from his pale fingers. A smile curving his words: “Would I not?”

Electing to ignore that, Y/N got onto the settee behind him and began drawing the brush through his hair herself. It was even more tousled up close; chaotic as though a fountain pen had scribbled narrow, erratic lines all over his head.

Loki’s spine tightened like a drawn bowstring, but he did not make any motion towards moving. “What are you doing?”

“Fixing your hair.” Y/N knew a smirk had grown on his face, and carried on teasing out the main knots. She knew to start from the feathery ends and work her way up, but had to stop every now and again to disentangle a bunch with her fingers.

“You must be very fond of it.”

“I am. I like your long hair.” Her cheeks heated as though the fire had blazed up suddenly, but it hadn’t, the ashes still only glowing only faintly. Before he could reply with something teasing and witty---like she knew he would---Y/N asked: “Have you eaten enough?”

“Enough for three lifetimes, thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”

“When you stop doting on me, I’ll stop thanking you.”

“I shall not stop.”

They fell silent, then, knowing that not to be true; come spring, she shall have to stop.

Y/N’s other hand had been dangling superfluously by her side, unsure of what to do with itself, but it rose, now, and settled on Loki’s shoulder. It loosened below her touch, so she left it there.

Y/N wondered about telling him the other things she likes about him.

Like his smile---the old one, the one before all this, when he still liked to paint; cheeky and white and all teeth.

And his porcelain skin, so alien in a world full of leathery, tanned folk used to toiling away below a persistent sun.

And his way with words. The way he delivers them, playing with language like it’s an instrument, creating pretty arrangements of syllables and sentences so decadent and lavish. He knows many things, and Y/N wishes he had more time to teach them to her, his voice like ribbons inscribed with facts and stories that pool in her ears and curl up in her brain.

She carried on brushing and didn’t stop, even when Loki's hair was falling like a slick, velvety curtain just past his shoulders. She just wordlessly continued, hauling her hand up to the crown of his head, then pulling it gently, smoothly down to the fluffy ends of his hair, the only sound being the smooth sweep of the boar bristles.

He let her, apparently contented, despite everything. The moans that escape his narrow lips whenever Y/N pays particular attention to his scalp during kisses hadn’t gone unnoticed, and she hoped her movements now were calming him in some similar way. They must be, because he had slackened, letting himself be tended to as if revelling in the attention.

Y/N had never seen a man with long hair before Loki, not up close. Anything past the length of your index finger is discouraged on the lower classes, the longer hairstyles reserved for royalty and nobility; a sign of wealth and power. Every male Y/N had come across sported a run of the mill cropped, choppy sort of style. Loki’s hair, though...it’s long enough to twist into braids. When caught up in a spell of childish impishness, Y/N had often wondered if the prince would permit her to do such a thing should she ask.

Y/N broke the silence eventually: “What do you want to do today?” She couldn’t resist it anymore, and placed the brush down, replacing the brush with her fingers. She could have sworn a soft sound broke in Loki’s pale throat.

“Can’t we just do this?”

A smile quirked at the corner of Y/N’s lip. “All day?” She’d collected a bundle of strands and drew them through the spaces between her fingers, watching the light shift on their glossy surface. When they’re all together like that they’re almost like a lick of black paint, trickling over her skin. 

Loki yawned before he replied, stifling it with the back of his hand. “Why not?”

Y/N had been joking, but the prince sounds serious. Y/N’s smile fell sideways. “Will you want to paint today? Surely it's nearly done _now.”_

She wants to kiss him. She's wanted to since Saturday, when he’d listened to his father give his life away before his kingdom---even if finishing the painting means she'll never get to do that again.

And she misses his old enthusiasm for his art. Perhaps he’s bored of that particular painting? Maybe he just needs to start a new project to rekindle his passion? The quicker he finishes this one the quicker he can move onto the next.

His shoulder stiffened under her palm. “Yes, it’s almost complete.”

Excitedly: “Shall we do that now, then? You could probably finish it before sundown.” A little of Loki’s hair caught around one finger, and when she eased it free, he tipped his head back, as if he liked it.

“Hmm.”

Y/N wasn't sure if that was a hum of dismissal or agreement. It might have been more related to her tugging his hair than her question, now that she thinks about it.

Either way, no one moved. A minute passed of Y/N just fiddling, twisting braids and revelling in the fact that the prince was letting her. He’d sagged tiredly, his shoulder blades a mere centimetre from Y/N’s front. She wouldn’t mind if he fell back to lean against her. She was tempted a few times to prompt him a bit; to ease him back until she’s cradling his head in the crook of her neck, her body supporting his sleepy bones.

He's so tall that Y/N's eye-line only just brushes the crown of his head, even though she's kneeling and he's cross-legged, back slumped like Alfdi's pile of laundry.

She wondered about teasing him over his un-princely posture, but decided not to.

For the first time in a while, he is still.

Not physically; although the only movement that betrays he's not some sort of marble statue is the slight parting of his jaw to hum or gasp pleasurably every now and again.

No, he is still in the way that the ocean is still. It can not move without the tides to drag it, or the wind to whip it up into a swell. It can do nothing other than let powers beyond its control---his Father’s will, the rigid laws of politics---do what they please.

There's no playful smirk tweaking his facial muscles. His jaw is slack. His eyebrows are relaxed; two dark lines resting in the centre of his forehead. Even that uneasy frown that's been haunting his expression in recent weeks has loosened, as if his anxiety is exhaling.

Should Y/N nudge him, she's sure he would simply flow with the movement, letting it take him where it wishes, like the barley in the fields bows to the wind.

He is not at peace; his worries are still there, his fears, his sorrows, his plight. But, at least for now, they're not troubling him. Like bullies bored with a victim, they are permitting him a moment's rest. Later they shall return with full force---

But not at the moment. Not yet.

...

Y/N had completed a narrow fishtail plait down one side of Loki's head. It glistened, slick and shining like the scales of a real fish; blackened from night below the surface of a silent sea. She had nothing to tie it with, so let it free, and began another one, and collected a few strands to do so. She used her nails like a rudimentary comb to scrape them together.

Loki definitely moaned this time. A soft sound, his head having fallen back enough for Y/N to see his narrow lips. They're parted enough for her to glance his white rocky teeth, his pink tongue.

A memory of it curiously brushing her lips blossomed in her mind strong and bright.

“Loki,” she said, before she could stop herself. Because she would stop herself if given enough time to mull it over, to marinade it in good-judgment. It is a stupid thing to say, a stupid thing to do.

She can not be in love with this man. This man is a _prince_ , royalty, second in line to the throne, leaving forever to a far-off kingdom.

This man is _engaged to someone else._

He replied with another distracted, single-syllable hum.

Y/N should say something else, now, anything. The logical part of her brain was hurriedly hunted around for an excuse as to why she'd got his attention---but she could already feel herself leaning. 

Gently, softly, Y/N pressed her lips to his neck.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven't felt like writing for weeks tbh and this chapter didn't go how I wanted it. But I don't actually know how I wanted it to go, so like at least I wrote something I guess? Lockdown is getting to me I think. I'm in a really weird place mentally

Y/N let her lips linger at Loki's neck, too long for it to be an accident, the pressure a little too much to be casual.

She hoped he wouldn’t mind. She didn’t _think_ he’d mind---he likes kissing; at least, he seems to enjoy their kisses before painting. And if he has ever _needed_ a kiss---someone to cradle his face, to caress and pamper him---it is now.

Loki tensed up as though electrified.

Y/N had felt it where she’s still holding his shoulder---to support herself as she leans down---that knot of muscle hardening below her palm. She couldn't see his eyes, but she knew they had snapped open.

Besides that, he did not move.

He continued to not move as Y/N dragged her lips a fraction to the left. She'd parted them this time, enough for him to feel the soft scrape of her teeth. His skin is sweet and cool against the wet heat of her tongue.

This did get a sound out of him; a soft, broken groan.

It grated against Y/N’s core low and delicious.

She'd pulled noises like that from him before, but not like this.

Encouraged, she continued. She’d had to sweep Loki’s hair to one side to get to him, and it feathered against the curve of her cheek as she followed the muscle leading down into his pine-green shirt. He hasn’t yet put on that scent he keeps on his dresser; that sharp, familiar tang days old and faded. Instead, he smells of the bath he’d taken; of pepper and lavender and rosewater.

Carefully, Y/N hunted out Loki's individual nerves, caressing them with loving precision. She could feel his heartbeat in a few places, quick and soft against her lips like summer rain landing on her face.

When she reached a patch of skin just below his ear, his head tilted to grant her exploring mouth more room.

She smiled against him.

_He likes it._

Y/N’s other hand is still in his hair, and she pushed it deeper, the thick black strands pouring into the gaps between her fingers like a night-cloaked ocean filling a bay.

Even that got a soft sound, something between a gasp and a catching of breath. Loki eased himself back to rest against Y/N's front, the sweet, foreign pressure of his weight pushing her into the plump armrest of the divan.

Smiling, Y/N slipped an arm under his and looped it about his middle. He loosened, letting her support him, her arm over his stomach rising and falling with his contented sigh.

Y/N needed only to turn her own head slightly, now, to mouth at his neck, and Loki accepted it hungrily.

His skin is fascinatingly pale. Part of Y/N has always wondered whether he has blood at all, or if he's just full of meltwater and sleet. She decided to test it, and gave his tissue-paper-white neck a suck.

Another moan ran through him.

When she pulled away, the place she'd sucked was flushed a tender, raspberry pink.

...

"What are you doing?" Loki eventually muttered unevenly. His voice was uncharacteristically breathy, his usually whetted tone dulled like a blunt blade.

Several minutes had passed, the prince now melted limply into Y/N's embrace, the pale column of his throat rosy and somewhat kiss-bruised.

Before answering, Y/N mouthed at the lobe of his ear. Apparently, it is a sensitive spot, because a weak groan pushed up from his chest. His hands gripped the knees of his trousers, balling the light linen tightly in his pale fists.

Y/N imagined them griping _her_ , and felt her confidence flare. “You only kiss me for the painting,” she said, high on the feel of him, the feel of his sounds in her skull. This is one of those things she would not have the courage to say at any other time. It has to be now, while she's drunk on him, while his intense gaze isn't inadvertently sheering her confidence. “But I just want you to know…you can kiss me whenever you like.”

Loki’s eyes remained closed, but he’d stilled against her chest as if alert. Had he been a deer, or a fox, his ears would have pricked.

Y/N nudged at his right one with the tip of her nose, catching the helix delicately between her teeth.

“...I can?” The words were an exhale rather than a question.

“Yes. I’d like you to.”

There was a pause in which Y/N watched the prince’s adam’s apple bob up and then down the milk-white stretch of his throat.

Then he reigned in his long legs that had stretched comfortably along the divan, and sat up, turning to face her. A faint blush was ghosting the ridges of his cheekbones, turning them pink like a sunset cresting a snowy ridge of mountains.

He moistened his lips. “What about...right now?” The green of his irises were alight as though a match had been struck behind them. It crackled and flared, looking stark and bright against his insomnia-freckled face.

Y/N nodded, and suddenly he was kissing her mouth, as though she was water after days of thirst, food after weeks of hunger, air after minutes of suffocation. The pad of his thumb found her chin and dragged it down enough to taste her. 

When Loki released her, a chuckle bubbled from his mouth, caressings Y/N’s lips like a breeze from a window.

As she grinned, her cheeks ached like the hinges of a door that needed a good greasing. “What?” She asked.

“Somehow, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist you.” Loki tugged her back for another kiss, softer this time, catching the curve of her bottom lip between the stony ridges of his teeth.

Y/N hummed and he swallowed it. She had to cling to the locks of his hair to steady herself, a few deep, dormant nerves igniting, their flames lapping excitedly around her belly, the underside of her ribs, up her chest. When she pulled back for a gulp of air: “You were trying to resist me?”

“I had to.” Another kiss. “We shouldn’t.” He didn’t elaborate, but Y/N knew what he meant.

Her hand found his jawline. They’re linked together, almost, like a chain; his hand against her cheek, hers against his. "No one has to know."

He pushed into her touch instinctually, but said: “It’s more that I have never known love before, and I doubt I'll ever know it again---”

“You love me?”

This time he kissed until she felt her back touch down against the soft swell of the divan. He’s crouching over her like a dragon over its hoard, his broad back blocking the sun’s glint from shining in Y/N’s eyes. When he spoke, the words brushed the shell of her ear, a rumble gritty enough to rival any dragon. “So much so, that---when the time comes---I fear I won’t be able to pull myself away.”

 _‘So don’t,’_ Y/N wanted to say.

“I love you too.” So much. It glows within her chest continually, a constant, persistent fire that never dims. Even when he moves to the Vanir kingdom, even when a thousand millennia have passed and Y/N is long since buried, that flame will still smoulder quietly away to itself amongst her bones and the soft soil.

The cool pad of Loki’s finger touched to her lips as if to push the words back into her mouth. When he spoke, his voice was rough like a wheel forced over a badly-paved road. “Don’t.”

Y/N bit the end of his finger lightly, making him withdraw it, and sent the words up into his face: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I---”

He kissed her again, and she felt him trying not to grin against her mouth. However, when he drew back, his smile had turned brittle. Gently, he collected up both Y/N’s wrists from his jawline and pinned them either side of her head.

Something in the pit of her stomach stirred, the corners of her mouth twitching with a smirk, but then she realised Loki isn’t playing; the green of his irises have turned as pale and wet as seafoam. “Y/N, you can’t.”

“Because I’m poor?” She asked, knowing that that was not why. “Because you’re a prince and I’m a peasant girl from the South Village?”

He laughed at her. “Do you really think so little of me?”

Y/N huffed, partly at him and partly because his hair was tickling her forehead like grass tickling bare toes. She can’t sweep it away because he’s still trapping her, his large hands smothering her wrists as easily and delicately as though they’re nothing but slender willow branches. Her pulse probably feels like a bird encapsulated in his palms, but Y/N isn’t sure she _has_ a pulse at the moment; her heart is crumbling like cake. “Then why not?”

By some miracle, their paths have crossed. They became friends, more than friends---a strange little family of two alone in their own little corner of the palace. Then Y/N had caught a crush on the tall, handsome prince because how could she not? And it had evolved and festered into _love_. But he loves her _back_ , and now---

Y/N feels like she's been swiftly whacked in the back of the knees.

“Because," Loki explained, pressing a soft kiss to Y/N's chin, her cheeks, her forehead, "after being warmed by your affection, excited by your touch; how will I tear myself away from you?” The words fell like dead autumn leaves onto her face, cold against the places he'd touched. “I will have to leave, but how? How will I starve myself of your love once I’ve tasted it?”

Y/N didn’t know what to say to that. Half of her expected to wake up any second to find Alfdis dragging the covers from her bed, telling her she'd overslept.

She moistened her lips, Loki’s gaze flicking down to watch.

When he returned his steady stare to her eyes, Y/N wondered if he could tell they’re prickling with moisture. “Surely it is better to have a little bit of something than to have nothing?” She tried. The tips of her fingers ached for the silken caress of his hair again, but he still wasn’t letting her touch him.

Only his eyes gave away his intense desire to succumb to her pull, to let his body settle between her thighs.

Y/N admired his strength, then, for the second time in just a few days. "If you think you’ll never feel love again, why deprive yourself of it while it's right here?”

Loki’s gaze swept her face as though longingly looking at it, that love that’s right here.

Whatever Y/N’s kisses at his neck had flushed his bloodstream with, it must have dribbled to a stop. His tiredness is back, his lack of sleep catching up with him, the weight of his responsibilities returning to his shoulders and weighing him down.

A floppy sort of smile came to his lips as he released Y/N’s wrists.

Her hands gravitated to cradle his face immediately, her legs winding about his slender middle. The unexpected touch made him blush, and he let himself fall down to rest intimately against Y/N's front.

When he kissed her it was sweet and slow like the syrup he’d spooned over his breakfast.

Y/N returned it softly.

“Okay,” he said when he eased away. His lips are flushed red, and curling with a smile, but there’s a sadness in his eyes that looks like it's here to stay. “But come Spring’s first full moon, you’ll have to be the one to tear me from your side. The God’s know _I_ won’t be strong enough.”

…

They kissed until their lips were raw.

These weren’t like the kisses for the painting. Those were urgent, desperate almost, a frantic scrabbling to grab as much as they can before the portrait reaches its completion, and their make-out sessions with it. They have time, now---well, several lunar cycles of it, at least.

Loki caressed Y/N's face with almost glacial slowness, relishing in her little gasps and grins. He's brighter, now, his lips curved with a loose, almost drunken smile; as though each kiss had pushed spring's full moon a little further from the view of his mind's eye.

He’d moved to nudge Y/N’s neck with the point of his nose, at one point, as if to kiss her. He didn’t, however; just saught out the comforting space behind her ear, and nestled there. She felt his contented sigh in her hair, and ran her fingers over his in the same way she pets the tomcat that hangs around the servant’s kitchens.

In Y/N’s arms, Loki could finally rest.

It didn't take him long to fall asleep. 

Y/N held him, comforted by his weight. It was a constant, soft sort of press, as though she’d been snowed on and just laid there taking it, letting the flakes pile up on top of her. Like snow, Loki's presence----Y/N knew---would be pitifully temporary.

But very beautiful while it lasts.

…

When Y/N woke, the room was smudged with dusk, shadows sketched across the polished floor as though with thick chalk. She must have slept, although not for as long as her prince, who was still sprawled out over her like butter on toast.

Y/N wished she did not have to disturb him. His slumber had been deep, as though void of dreams, the hand he had dangling from the lip of the divan tranquil and pale as marble. If the low position of the sun was anything to go by, he’d grasped six hours of sleep, but Y/N knew that to not be enough.

He stirred when Y/N ran her fingers over his head like a comb, the touch easing him into consciousness. His hand drew in closer and came to rest between Y/N's breasts, heavy against on the ridge of her sternum. The touch was pure and entirely innocent; he was seeking out the beat of her heart.

Y/N cuddled him closer. “You fell asleep,” she pointed out through a smile, fully expecting a quip curled with amusement in answer.

Predictably, it came, his voice gummed up with sleep: “Apparently so.” Then, rather _unpredictably_ : “Sorry.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed like the creases now denting Loki’s trousers. “Why?”

“I’m sure a nap is not what you had in mind when you started mouthing at my neck.”

Her cheeks blossomed with heat. “I don’t know _what_ I had in mind. I just...how did you put it?" Her blush ran down her neck and pooled around her collarbones, "Couldn't resist you.”

Loki chuckled and it rippled through Y/N and then the divan, probably only pittering out when it met the harsh slab of cold gold flooring. “Then I am forever indebted to your pitifully weak willpower.”

Y/N smirked. “What happened to 'We shouldn't'?" The fishtail braids she had wound into his hair were still there, but slowly coming loose, and she ran one between finger and thumb absently, feeling the silken bumps of each knot. "Would you have ever given in? If I hadn't touched you first, would you have eventually made a move?" 

“Do you not remember my lecture about royalty abusing their power?”

“I would have turned you down if I didn't want to be with you; prince or no.”

“So you’d rather risk disobeying the youngest prince of your realm than kiss someone you don’t want to?”

“Yes. _Odin_ could _order_ me to kiss him, and have every member of the royal guard point their spiky flagpoles at me and I _still_ wouldn’t.” She’d forgotten to call the Allfather His Majesty, but Loki didn’t see, to care.

He just laughed again, and Y/N felt it against her neck. “They’re called a lance, but I take your point.”

Y/N didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling.

They let a few minutes pass, darkness creepy silently around the window panes like frost.

“Alfdis will be sending search parties after you soon," Loki muttered eventually.

Y/N replied with a hum.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Is that an order, your Highness?” Y/N smiled but it fell sideways as Loki pushed himself up.

She would stay if he made her, and he knew that. Y/N also knew that would tangle up a whole bunch of threads. “No. I won't have you losing your position on my account---"

She opened her mouth.

"Even if you are willing to." He took her hand, and smoothly helped her up from the divan.

She swayed a little after so long laying horizontally, and felt Loki's take her hips, steadying her. As she blinked away purple dots, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

"I just meant: tomorrow feels too far away."

…

As they reached the door, Loki pressed some coins into Y/N's palm. There were a few more of the thick gold disks than usual, and Y/N opened her mouth to refuse them.

A smile twitched at Loki's lip. “Before you break out in hives, they’re not extra wages. Here.” He made a few quick notes onto a scrap of parchment.

Y/N recognised them vaguely from Frode’s stall; she'd seen a few inscribed on tags hanging from the jars that line the back shelf. She visibly lit up. “You’re painting again?”

Loki's smile was strangely bashful. “It’s nearly finished, I promise. I’ve just realised that something is missing.” 


	30. Chapter 30

The sconces had been lit by the time Y/N left Loki’s chambers, and she followed their swaying flames down to the servant’s quarters; the soft smell of beeswax morphing slowly into the tang of burning fat as the wax sticks decreased in quality the close she got.

Loki’s kisses are still echoing on her lips, his words still nestled close to her heart. She’d clutched them there, safe and secret, enclosed in the warm cradle of her palms.

 _‘I don’t need wax sticks,’_ she pondered to herself amongst the shadows. She’s pretty sure she’s glowing just as much as they are.

_He loves her. He loves her. He loves her._

It’s a different sort of love to that of Y/N’s parents, or Alfdis, or even Arne, and it feels different in the way it follows her about--- unassuming, honest, and asking nothing in return---keeping dutiful watch over, his affection padding invisibly, loyally, silently at her heels. It was there the entire time and she didn't even know.

As Y/N loaded some leftovers onto a plate and took a seat in the almost abandoned mess hall, she self-consciously checked her reflection in the curved back of her pudding spoon. Her own bright expression shone back at her, her slight kiss-bruised smile stretched into a grin.

Hopefully, no one will notice.

…

The glowing hadn’t subsided, even when Y/N woke the next morning. She would have suspected it to be magic---some sort of mild spell she’d walked into by accident---had she known that to be near impossible. The only practitioner of magic she knew was Loki, and he of all people understood the importance of keeping their relationship a secret.

It was spitting with rain as Y/N made her usual walk to the market, the sloped road trickling with rivulets of moisture. It was a lazy sort of rain, falling softly from a wet bundle of clouds, and Y/N didn’t even mind when the occasional droplet seeped through her oilskin. The damp was a nice change of pace from the dry heat of summer, and when she reached Aasta’s stall Y/N was still smiling.

“Someone’s chipper,” the baker teased, nipping a fat wedge of rocky road in some tongs. Shards of butter-biscuit protruded jaggedly from the treat, yet Aasta managed to fit it neatly into a wood-pulp box which she began fastening with twine. "You're glowing like a dog with two tails."

Y/N took the box once the baker had executed a deft, loopy little bow, and placed it carefully at the bottom of her cotton bag with the other. She shrugged with one shoulder, making sure not to shake up her cakes and pushing down a blush. “I just like the rain.”

Aasta looked like she very much didn’t believe that to be the whole reason, and Y/N retreated under the hood of her oilskin---even though the rain couldn't penetrate the market's thick maze of awnings---as she pressed a few coins into her hand.

It was white with sugar dusting and soft as the dough she rolls. “Of course it is.” Her plump lips curved into a smile, but as Y/N turned to leave she added seriously:

“Just be safe, okay sweety?”

…

Y/N contemplated Aasta’s words as she watched Arne fiddle about with some scales at the back of the apothecary stall.

While he was distractedly tipping crumbly nuggets of gold powder onto the weighing dish, Y/N made a decision.

Suddenly feeling too hot in her oilskin---leaned over to whisper a few quick things into Frode’s little pink mole-like ear.

She had expected a judgmental look, or perhaps a small tutting, but got neither.

He just plucked a bottle from below the shelf and handed it to her in exchange for a small stack of silvers.

…

Upon arriving back at the palace, Y/N slipped to her dormitory rather than heading straight to the mop-closet.

She had to wait for one of her roommates to finish changing the sheets but---when finally alone---she took the little bottle Frode had given her from her tote.

The label read _‘Solveig Thompson’s Family Planning Tonic.’_ Below the title, in proud bold font, the promise _‘Instant effects’_ was scrawled, along with instructions for use which were simply _‘Take one dose before and one after.’_

Y/N felt as though she was smearing a large stain on her honour as she carefully measured out the gloopy clear liquid into the glass cap.

 _‘Although,’_ she muttered bitterly to herself, _‘My and Loki’s relationship would have been entirely honourable had we been permitted to marry.’_

…

As soon as Y/N’s knuckles rang a knock through the hallway before the prince’s quarters, the door opened and she was tugged inside, Loki immediately pouncing on her for a kiss.

She fell into it eagerly, letting herself drown in the sweet tang of his scent, the soft cotton of his shirt, the safe cage of his arms. She’s home.

The rain pattered gently against the broad window panes across the room, the sky still a moist grey. When Loki drew back enough to grin down at her, though, his smile swamped the whole room in a warm fuzzy light.

“Hello,” Y/N said stupidly, her cheeks flowering with red roses. Will there ever be a day when the prince's attention doesn't make her blush?

His beam twitched into a smirk. “I think we’re a little past ‘hello’, don’t you?” One of his hands found the bun atop Y/N’s head and teased the pins free, letting her hair tumble about her shoulders. His pale eyes watched it with quiet satisfaction; Y/N knew the servant's dress code grated him. If Loki had his way, Asgard palace probably wouldn't have servants at all. _'The man who forged my father's sword did so with one arm and one eye,'_ he had once drawled with a twist to his mouth, _'and yet our gallant king requires a man to help him with his socks.'_

Y/N let a laugh bubble in her chest and reached up, taking the side of Loki's face. She likes him being there, under her hand. She likes knowing where he is, safe and loved by her side, not off disappointing his father or shivering cold in the shadow of his brother.

He pushed eagerly into the touch---

Then something caught Y/N's eye. “It’s finished?”

A few links down in the chain of his rooms, Loki’s easel stood where’s they’d left it, in the lounge facing the window surrounded by brushes and water jars. The wooden tripod has become an honorary piece of furniture after all these weeks, and Y/N is accustomed to its almost ghostly appearance; the painting shrouded modestly in a white sheet.

But now the sheet isn't there.

The block of canvas is bare and naked, sat heavily atop the easel’s spindly legs, weighing them down with thick greens and vibrant golds.

Loki followed as Y/N gravitated to it quickly, her slippered feet pattering almost as fast as the rain outside as she crossed from one room to the next.

Yes, it’s complete, so perfect it’s as though Loki had snipped a slice out of reality with darning scissors and plastered it there---Y/N’s own face staring back at herself as though through a looking glass.

Or a dream. The texture of the paint, the delicate dabs and subtle sweeps give it a fuzzy appearance, the colours dazzling, saturated, intense, more lavish than reality could ever hope of being.

“I actually finished your expression several days ago,” Loki admitted meekly. “I just wanted an excuse to kiss you again.”

Y/N turned to him and he lowered his piercing eyes to his bare feet.

“Sorry.”

The corner of Y/N’s lip curled. “What have you been doing for all those hours while I thought you were painting my face?”

The broad line of the prince's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. His hair has grown over recent months, and he’d not trimmed it so short, the loose waves swallowing his shirt collar as it rose and fell. “Layering, shading, mostly. Things I didn’t really need you to pose for. Again: sorry.”

“I don’t mind.”

His muscles unfurled and Y/N turned back to the canvas, the painting as luscious and alive as the forests lining the palace gardens.

“It’s so beautiful.”

How can a person produce something this beautiful? How can a person see the world like this, so shrouded in colour and emotion and significance? The painting is freckled with little things Y/N hadn’t deemed important, things _she_ would have left out.

The thick volumes stacked on the little table to her left, their spines a deep, rich, contrasting brown.

The glint of a crystal vase sitting atop them like a transparent spirit, morphing the texture of the wall, giving the blank space subtle texture.

The bruises on the floor from spilt ink, the rubber soles of slippers, chairs and end tables pushed about hinting at life, making the picture look lived in. Y/N almost expected the painting version of herself to move; to yawn or stretch or blow her hair from her forehead.

She can see the beauty in them now, through Loki’s eyes, these insignificant things. They're small but a part of the image all the same, lending themselves to it in ways few would notice.

Y/N felt Loki come up behind her silently, his arms looping about her middle. The unexpected touch still set her nerves tingling, and she let her back fall against his chest.

He supported her easily, and his voice came from above her head, bashfully, but evidently hungry for her praise: “You think?”

“Of course. Look at it.”

They did, silently for several minutes. It contrasted starkly against the window behind it, the greens like summer grass, the sky puddle-grey. The rain goes on and on, masking the horizon in thick sheets, encapsulating the palace like it's its own gold-encrusted ecosystem.

After a little while, Y/N asked: “So what’s missing?” The bag of cakes and pigment is still hanging from her left hand and she lifted it a little, referring to the various golds and a few greens that sat at the bottom in their wooden boxes. What else could he possibly need to paint? How could this be improved? Is there something beyond perfection?

"Your earrings don't match your dress."

Y/N squinted at the painting. “You didn’t paint in any earrings.”

“Because they don’t match. These are silver. The painting is gold.”

She felt one of his hands rise to delicately cup her right earring, letting the little dangling charm roll over the pad of his finger. “You’re really that particular?” Y/N laughed.

He probably felt it where he’s still encircling her stomach with one arm, and held her closer, his nose replacing his finger at her ear, then his lips. He gave the helix a playful little nip.

Heat dribbled down the back of her neck. Thankfully her hair kept it hidden.

Electing to ignore that: "I don't like this empty space here." His pale hand rose to gesture vaguely at the picture. "The lower half---with the dress's braiding is very gold-heavy. It makes the top half look empty."

"You could just use gold paint rather than silver."

"I have a better idea. Stay there." Drawing away, Loki slinked off to the next room and disappeared around a corner.

Y/N hoped he could sense her suspicion through the wall. It's playful, a teasing narrowing of eyes, and yet her heart rose in her throat. She swallowed to force it back down. "What have you done?"

Loki waited until he’d returned to answer, a palm-sized wood pulp box in one hand. It was dyed a clean mint-leaf sort of colour and Y/N felt her chest tightened. "Now, I know you don't like it when I buy you things---"

She wanted to shove him, then, but was afraid to break whatever it was in the box.

“---But I want you to know I bought these myself. With my money, not the kingdom's.” He noticed Y/N’s mouth open as if to scold him for doing something as common as _earning_ money, and added: “Not cleaning, or anything like that; I sold some old paintings.”

“Your paintings---”

He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. “Nothing I wasn’t fully prepared to part with, I assure you. Here.”

Y/N hesitated before taking the box. Her hands were disturbingly clammy, so she wiped them on her uniform first, the material scraping rather than drying.

Inside the box, resting atop a pillow plusher than the one on Y/N’s own bed, lay two earrings.

They consisted of four parts: a wire hook clean and fine as a hair, two pressed gold disks as light as foil, and finally a large hoop wide as a gold coin. Suspended in the hoop, thin as the skin of an onion, hung a sliced slither of emerald.

Y/N didn’t want to touch them in case they shattered. Even her gaze upon them felt too heavy, too dirty, as if she'd sully them just by looking.

Carefully, she carried them to a chest of draws and set them down so she could pull a hankie from her dress. Drawing her old earrings from her lobes, she wrapped them in the cotton and pushed them safe to the bottom of her pocket.

It was Loki who lifted the new ones from their cushion and deftly eased them into her ears.

Again, Y/N couldn’t stop smiling.

…

Changing into her dress took Y/N longer than usual because she spent a good deal of time tilting her head from side to side in the washroom mirror.

The earrings looked wonky whilst she still had her starchy housemaid’s dress on. Not wonky as in off-centre, but wonky as in out of place, like something that had been drawn onto her person---and not very well.

But as soon as she’d slipped into her matching green dress they settled into place immediately.

“You look like a queen,” Loki said as Y/N left the washroom, a shy smile curving her lips.

Y/N’s eyes widened with horror, her cheeks draining of colour. “Loki! You can’t say that!”

Evidently, he did not share her panic. “Why not?”

“What do you mean _‘why not?’ It’s_ terribly disrespectful of Her Highness Frigga---”

Loki waved off her concerns with one hand. “I don't see how.”

“Because someone like me could never--- _should_ never---be compared to Our Lady---" She could see a frown furrowing that space between his dark eyebrows and cut herself off.

 _'Housekeeping is what you do, but that doesn't mean you're a housekeeper,'_ Loki has often lectured, and Y/N doesn't want to be lectured again. The prince seems to think someone's profession does not define who they are---but it does; at least in the working classes. He can be a prince _and_ an artist, and his brother can be an heir _and_ a warrior, but all Y/N can be is a servant.

The title clings like limpets to the hull of a ship.

She sighed. "---it’s just...wrong.” She smoothed the folds of her skirt self consciously, feeling suddenly like she’d stolen someone else’s skin. “You may treat me like royalty but you mustn't forget that I’m not.”

“You are to me.”

She did shove him this time, and Loki let her, his chuckles rolling like the clouds outside. 


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the waittttttt, this chapter was super long like 5000 words (I usually keep em at like 3,300) so I broke it into two. You'll get the next half when I'm done editing :-)

A damp essence of finality hung in the air as Y/N stepped into Loki's studio. She doubts that the prince will start a new painting once this one is completed---not before he leaves for the Vanir kingdom, anyway. Mentally, she tried to note the colourful scars bruising every surface, the view from the gaping windows, the sharp tang of dried paint.

The downward pull of Y/N's new earrings amounts to little less than a leaf, yet the lobes of her ears are extremely conscious of their weight. She still isn't utterly convinced she should keep the gift Loki has given her.

What paintings had he sold? Whose walls were they now adorning? Do they appreciate them? Do they know to frame them out of reach from children's sticky fingers, and far from the snarling sun that's eager to gobble up their vibrance?

Y/N would utter a small prayer to the Allfather---after the safety of their beauty---but she knew Odin would have few cares for such a matter. 

She chewed her lip.

Meanwhile, Loki settled on one of the plump velvet cushions tucked neatly below the low table, his long legs folding under himself like the organised sails of a frigate. He had given up trying to convince Y/N the earrings were now hers some time ago, pointing out that even if she did give them back to him, that would not change the fact that his paintings are gone.

His paintings being gone didn't seem to bother him. Presently, he's digging through her box-filled tote for whatever treat Y/N had bought from Aasta.

Y/N flopped down next to him like a wet rag. "What if someone sees them?" She released her chewed lip long enough to ask him worriedly, then clarified: "My earrings. Where will I say I got them?"

"You can keep them here with your dress," was the nonchalant reply, Loki's nimble fingers working the twine bow keeping him from his cake. When it was sufficiently unravelled, Y/N watched him ease open the wood pulp lid, a smile lighting up his pale, pointed face.

"What about when you leave?"

He shrugged. "Sell them. Use the money to buy a house. Put the dress in it."

Y/N squeaked, horrified: "I'm not going to sell them!"

"Then _I'll_ buy you a house. Put the dress _and_ the earrings in it."

Y/N pushed him, but it was like trying to playfully shove a deeply-rooted tree.

As if her assault had been little more than a gentle lap of the tide, he took his wedge of rocky road in finger and thumb and bit into it with a hum.

"You'll do no such thing."

A blasé rise and fall of those broad shoulders. "There's nothing you can do to stop me."

"Are you _threatening_ to buy me a house?"

Loki lifted his attention from his food to gauge Y/N's expression."Well, would you not like a house?"

Yes, Y/N would like a house. She doesn't know a single person who wouldn't like a house.

One day she will own one---well a bungalow. She'll inherit her family's two-roomed, squat little building, and be free to rent it or live in it---whatever she prefers. She had contemplated selling it---seeing as she can lodge at the palace as an employee---but decided not to. The money wouldn't be enough to buy another bungalow; not nowadays. She could always move back home and live in it, but her parents had sent her to the kingdom's epicentre because of the lack of work available at its fringes---

Y/N tried to mask her interest with a glare, but she knew those chips of jade had already read the dreams printed all over her soul. "You can't just buy someone a house, Loki."

Brow furrowing: "Why not?"

"Because it's not fair. Why should my peers have to work their whole lives for a pittance whilst I get things they could never dream of for nothing?"

Loki smiled. "Now you _sound_ like a queen."

Y/N stuck her tongue out at him this time, knowing he was probably only saying it to get her nettled. Moodily, she took the cake box from him and bit into her slice of rocky road, the fragments of butter-biscuit sharp on the roof of her mouth. Fluffy marshmallows soothed the hurts, cocoa sweet on her tongue. When she had swallowed, she asked:

"Did you have breakfast today?"

"Yes, I dined with my family for the first time in a while." His eyes wettened slightly, like pebbles rubbed by the sea. "Mother looked like she might weep when she saw that I'd finally left my rooms."

Y/N is not the only person Loki will be tearing himself from, come spring. He will miss his sweet mother; the tutor of his spells, and sometimes---it seems---his only ally, more than he can say.

He doesn't need to say.

Y/N placed a hand on his knee and he gave the back of her palm a grateful squeeze.

"I was going to bring some food up for you, sorry," he apologised, and Y/N shook her head.

"You don't need to---"

"I'd like to. We'll have brunch later instead, or an early supper." A smirk curved his lip. "And you're keeping the earrings, even if you won't let me buy you a house."

When Y/N's mouth opened to protest, he pushed her lower jaw back up with one finger.

"Don't you know it's terribly rude to reject a present from a prince?"

...

Once the rocky road and all its crumbs had been consumed, Loki removed the wooden boxes from Y/N's cotton bag and set them about the low, colour-stained table.

Methodologically pummeling the pigments into a powder helped Y/N's guilt about her gifts to settle; she'd missed the work during Loki's painting hiatus. Lounging about and playing with the prince is fun, but wrong. She'd collected her wages from Alfdis at the end of each week with a taught smile, the knowledge that she had not earned them sitting like a rock in her stomach. The coins had felt jagged in her pocket, despite their rounded edges. If the majority of them didn't go to her parents, she would have given them to some form of charity.

At least now, as her hands push to grind the pigment against the curved base of the mortar, she feels as though she is working for a living.

Loki said very little as he knelt at Y/N's side preparing chicken eggs and various chemicals in a stained little bowl. Occasionally he would look Y/N's way, and smile a soft smile. The sadness from a few minutes ago had left his eyes, and now he looks quietly contented.

Next to him, Y/N dutifully crushed the first colour. It was a bronzed sort of gold, as if tanned by the weather, and malleable. When it was fine enough, Y/N tipped it into the bowl Loki held out, and he began mixing it into the egg white to form a thick, satisfying paste.

It took Y/N a little while to realise he was staring at her.

"What?"

"I was just thinking...you're gorgeous..."

Heat touched the tips of Y/N's ears. It always will, every time, but something in his tone made her brow furrow. "...But?"

"But something's still missing." Loki touched the tips of his fingers to the paint thoughtfully. It clung to his pale skin, and he rubbed it between finger and thumb as though to check the texture.

Y/N thought he might say she had not ground the pigment fine enough, but then he turned to her, eyes bright, and pressed the pad of his index finger to her face.

The skin just below Y/N's nose chilled, as though caressed by a breeze off the mountains

Loki drew the cool pad of his paint-covered finger sideways, above Y/N's lip, the line wet and easy. Then he lifted it again and pressed it back below her nose to give the left side of her face equal treatment.

Y/N can see the white of his teeth as he draws away to assess his handiwork. She didn't have to use the reflective blade of a paint knife to know he'd rubbed an elegant golden moustache onto her face.

"That's funny," Y/N said, selecting a bowl of her own. "I was just thinking the same thing about you. I mean, don't get me wrong, you're breath-taking."

He is. Especially now, eyes full of sparks, the thin line of his mouth turned up as he watches her submerge the tips of her finger and thumb in a light bronze sort of colour. He knows what she's going to do, but doesn't make any movement towards stopping her, even as she pushes herself up onto her knees.

What to draw on him?

A pair of bushy sideburns along those wetted cheekbones?

A third eye learning out from his alabaster forehead?

Y/N remembered Frode, then, and how he keeps a little glass disk on a chain in his breast pocket. Sometimes he'll press it to one eye---squinting to hold it in place---and Y/N has to hold in giggles at how comical he looks.

"But something is missing." Smiling, she circled Loki's right eye, the paint grazing the side of his nose and matting in his dark eyebrow.

The monocle looked lonely by itself, so she gave him a trim little beard that seemed to be extremely popular amount travelling merchants.

He gave her a broad grin. "Am I handsome enough now?" He asked, and Y/N giggled, returning his toothy smile.

"The handsomest."

"As are you," he replied---pales eyes sliding over the assortment of paints littering the table, "Or at least, you will, once I'm finished with you." He pulled the pad of one finger across the length of Y/N's forehead, gifting her with a thick monobrow.

...

Y/N had gained spectacles, several overgrown freckles, and a pair of cat ears by the time Loki declared that she met his standards.

"Now you _definitely_ look like a queen," he drawled, one side of his lip curled in a smirk. It creased his monocle into a crescent moon.

"I _feel_ like a queen," Y/N agreed for once, but only because she knew he was playing.

Loki leaned forwards in a graceful bow, the raven-feather tips of his hair brushing to the colour-stained floor. "And what be your wishes, My Queen?"

Pressing the smile from her lips, Y/N ironed out her spine, giving her chin a regal jut. "My wishes be that you kiss me, Young Prince."

Said prince raised one paint-caked eyebrow. "My Queen lacks ambition."

Y/N shrugged her shoulders, feeling her new earrings touch them lightly. "Well, if you don't want to---"

She didn't get to finish that sentence; Loki had leaned forwards as if to bow again, but caught Y/N's lips instead, greedily, showing her that he very much did.

It was hard not to touch him, Y/N's paint-coated hands longing to reach for the reassuring solidity of his body. The feeling was a familiar echo that's been ringing throughout the past year; they'd been that way a lot in this room---aching for him---Loki so close and yet simultaneously so out of reach.

He broke the kiss, his own arms tight at his sides. "There will never be a day when I don't want to," he breathed against her mouth, each word tasting of cocoa and butter biscuit and the doughy fluff of marshmallow.

Y/N shuffled forwards on her knees to catch his lips again, but he tilted his head, her kiss scuffing the corner of them sliding over his jawline.

His jaw fell open. "Please kiss me like you did yesterday."

Y/N knows which kisses he means; those long, lingering, curious ones she'd used to map out his wonderfully responsive neck.

Mouth widening into a nervous little grin, she pressed a light, fleeting caress to his chin. "...Like this?"

Loki's elbow twitched as though about to take her face, her waist, to pull her little body against his---

but, with admirable control, he stifled the urge. He couldn't stifle his grin, though. "You know how I mean."

"Do I?"

Velvet ribbons: "Don't toy with me, Y/N."

Smiling, Y/N strayed over the sharp dash of his cheekbones, down the column of his pale throat, all quick touches of her lips; like butterflies landing and then leaving, startled. _"These_ kisses?" She taunted, and he shook his head, but his breath had quickened all the same.

Gold paint blemished his skin like glittering bruises, smudging against Y/N's mouth, the texture smooth, the taste chalky.

"How about these?" A little firmer, a chaste press to his collarbone.

Loki made a soft sound.

Y/N had planned to play with him more. _He's_ always playing with _her_ , trying to ruck up the space between her brows into that vexed frown he's so stupidly fond of. She'd wanted to get him back.

But how can she keep him from what he wants, when he makes noises like that?

Her blood heating as though placed above a flame, Y/N doubled back in search of that spot, eager to draw out more little hisses and whines. Each one grated against her core like a slice of flint, sparks bursting hot and prickly between her cells.

"Temptress," Loki hissed through a smirk as Y/N kissed that hard line of bone again, just enough to make his breath catch, not enough to turn the little huff of air into a moan. "You and your glorious golden moustache."

A roll of giggles bubbled up from Y/N's lungs, and she let them mingle with the kiss she gave him; a caress of joy, tongue, and heat.

That seemed to break him, because Y/N felt him take her wrist, his grasp slick with gold. Pupils large, he guided her hand to the collar of his shirt, pressing her paint-stained fingers to the buttons. Yellow against green; sunlight through leaves.

"You've ruined a perfectly good shirt," Y/N chided through a smile. If _he_ hadn't done it, _she_ would have; fervently wiped her hands on a matted cloth until they're clean-ish, and tugged down that tauntingly low v-neck.

Loki found Y/N's ear and nipped it. "Worth it." He's not on his plump velvet pillow anymore. He's managed to wriggle right off it to board Y/N's, like a pair of lovers sharing a hunk of sinking ship. 


	32. Chapter 32

The joints in Y/N's fingers gummed up with exhilaration as she clumsily eased the first of Loki's shirt buttons from its loop, and then the second, then the third.

It's hard to concentrate with the rough scrape of the prince's teeth at her neck, the brushing sweetness of his hair tickling her face---but she managed, and let her eyes slide down the narrow column skin she'd exposed, pale and mysterious as the moon.

Y/N has seen shirtless men before; metalworkers glistening from the heat of their fires, burly and coal-blackened, farmers thick as oxen turning over fields, their backs peeled by the sun.

But Loki doesn't look like them.

Y/N slips the material from his body as though drawing back curtains on something she's forbidden from seeing. "The handsomest," she says, seriously this time, and feels him grin against her throat.

She doesn't know what she wants to touch first.

The firm hills of his pectorals.

The slight grid of muscles at his stomach.

His taught, sinewy upper arms.

She wants to touch all of him, have him against her, engulfing her, the sweet hard weight of him pressing her into some kind of horizontal surface.

Anything will do. A bed. The table. The floor.

That foreign desire flooded her all at once, and she swam in it for a second, wondering if Loki is feeling the same thing. He probably is. She can feel his heartbeat when she kisses his throat.

He's not touching her, but she'd like him to. Well, he is, but not with his hands, because they're dripping with paint. He's holding them behind his back---like he'd done when they'd met on the palace steps---but this time Y/N can see the tight muscles of his arms working to keep them there.

Perhaps it's a blessing they're there. She never would have managed to get his shirt open had they been allowed to roam.

Y/N touches a palm to his chest, her hands tingling with his cool, forbidden skin.

Loki's kisses stumble at the contact, his heart quick beneath her hand. The rest of him is still as he adjusts to the intimate touch. 

When he resumes, his lips part, the wetness of his tongue startlingly hot.

Y/N whimpers.

"That's my favourite sound," he growled, and Y/N giggled shakily.

Kissing Loki's neck feels different now. As her trail extends lower, she keeps expecting to touch the collar of his shirt, to hit a wall of gauzy fabric---but of course, there isn't one anymore. She can just keep going, and does, clutching onto his hair---his waist---to keep herself steady.

Loki exhales thickly as the tip of Y/N's nose brushes a nipple.

"Is this okay?" she asks, but its a stupid question, and she watches his pale stomach contract with a laugh.

"More than." A small suck at her ear.

A small moan from Y/N.

"I've been thinking about this since I saw you dragging that wretched mop over those blasted front steps," he said, the words low and gritty.

Y/N let her hand slide to his belly, liking the catch of his breath, the slight, surprising softness of him. He'd filled out since she'd met him; a boy into a man. "Even though my lips were chapped from the cold?"

"Especially because your lips were chapped from the cold." His paint-stained right hand delicately cupped her chin.

Y/N's body flooded with signals to spread herself open to him.

"It took all my willpower not to scoop you up and tend to you myself."

Y/N would like him to kiss her somewhere else, anywhere else, everywhere else.

For the first time, she cursed her beautiful velvet dress.

"Tend to me now," she breathed.

A smirk curled Loki's lip. He pressed a kiss to Y/N's cheek, then her neck, then the collar of her dress settled around the base of her throat. "If you took this off---" rather than words, he finished that sentence with a kiss, so deep it whipped up her blood like the wind twisting fallen leaves. He's showing her. Showing her what he'd do if she did.

Legs structurally sound as suet, Y/N pushed herself to her knees and collected up the skirt of her dress. Her heart is in her mouth, she can feel its wild rhythm against her teeth.

What would her parents say?

_No one has to know._

What would the Allfather say?

_He'll never find out._

Find out what? That his son is loved?

_I've never known love before._

_Why deprive yourself of it while it's right here?_

With one smooth motion, Y/N dragged the gown over her head and tossed it onto a patch of floor.

Loki swallowed roughly.

Y/N watched his jaw clench as her naked skin reacted to the brisk chill of the room, prickly gooseflesh rising in tight piques. She's bare besides a plain pair of panties, and Loki's eyes chew on them before sliding ravenously over her curves.

His pupils are so large they're engulfing his irises; black consuming green, a forest swamped in night. He looks like he's going to eat her.

Y/N felt her breasts tighten under his gaze and his eyes dropped, watching.

"My queen," he muttered grittily as he drew her to him, and Y/N did not correct him.

She just let his arms bundle her up against his chest, his cool skin connecting with her warm skin in a crack of lightning. In Loki's embrace, she feels like a queen.

His mouth found hers and smothered it, Y/N tangling her hands in his hair getting an approving growl. It shuddered through her core like a roll of thunder, his arousal already nudging insistently against her hip.

Experimentally, Y/N shifted against that building heat. It must have shot a bolt of something through him because Loki's body tensed up with a shuddering groan.

"Y/N," he muttered unevenly, just to taste her name on his tongue.

She felt his paint-covered hand climb her chest, the wide, firm spread of his palm coming up to softly cup one of her breasts, and sucked in a breath.

"Okay?" He prompted gently, the word an exhale.

"Yes." Her every cell is humming. "Don't stop."

He gave her softness a curious squeeze and something deep in Y/N's belly tightened.

Loki smirked against her lips, catching the bottom one between his teeth.

Y/N wanted to tell him she likes what he's doing, but any words her brain tried to form kept melting into a heap of letters with the room's rising temperature. She just clutched onto the wide stretch of his shoulders; fingers digging into the lean muscles, elegant bones. The floor has fallen away beneath her, the colour-stained rugs, the hefty marble, and everything, and there's only Loki, the masculine power of him, the salty taste of his skin.

The hand at Y/N's breast started drawing delicate circles around her nipple. He's following the pinched areola, closer and closer until the pads of his finger and thumb closed over the flushed bud at its centre. It's tender and pink and defenseless below his touch, and he rolled it lovingly between finger and thumb.

Y/N mewled.

It was Loki's undoing, because he took the swell of her hips, lifting her smoothly onto the low little table, pots and bowls scattering like a flock of hollow wooden birds. 

When he eased his trouser-covered hips between the warmth of Y/N's thighs it set that ache in her abdomen ablaze.

Automatically, her legs wound around his waist. She let the prince nudge her down until her shoulders touched the scuffed wood of the table.

Loki gazed down at her, gold paint smudged over him like glistening bruises. After a moment he draws back and takes her left hand. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted to vent his heavy breaths, but when he speaks it is pensive. "When I first saw you I dreamt of putting a ring here." He circles the base of Y/N's third finger, the pads of his own still stained with gold pigment. They leave a shadow of a line.

He's frowning, and Y/N kisses it, and the creases smooth over like rumples in a bedsheet.

It took her a second to collect enough breath to answer. "We may not be united here." She left her own ghost of a wedding band about his ring finger, then scooped some more paint from a nearby bowl.

This gold is stronger than the last, lucent; the colour so plentiful it's overflowing.

With it, Y/N encapsulated Loki's heart in a hoop over his chest. She could see her fingerprints in it, the marks like delicate engravings in metal. "But we are here."

Loki pressed his lips to her smile, and said he loves her into her mouth.

Y/N swallowed the syllables, silken as ribbon in her throat. She is thankful for the squat, sturdy table below her, the wood a comfort against her back.

The prince's kisses are falling lower, and when he swerves left to mouth at a nipple Y/N clung to his hair, her stomach clenching with a delicious ache. His hand is wandering down, brushing her belly, her thighs, tantalisingly close to that hunger between her legs. "This okay?" he asks in a low voice. His lips are curled with a smirk at Y/N's sounds, but he pauses all the same, easing his thumb into the band of her knickers, setting Y/N's blood fizzing.

Pulse loud in her ears, she takes his slender wrist and pushes his hand down below the cotton. "More."

Loki's groan of satisfaction was heavy as it tumbled onto Y/N's shoulder as he touched upon the wetness waiting for him. With the pad of a finger, he gave a soft, tentative stroke.

A shudder rolled along Y/N's core.

"Good?" He asked, Y/N's answering moan just a weak little breath amongst Loki's ragged panting. His linen trousers must be incredibly uncomfortable, Y/N thought, but only for a fleeting second---

Spurred on by her response, Loki rubbed her folds again, curiously exploring that bundle of nerves with the soft pad of one finger, dipping down to her entrance then back up, relishing Y/N's tormented whimpers.

She needs something to hold onto, something to keep her tethered to reality as it disappears around her---the paint-scuffed walls, the cabinets, the animal hair brushes---all replaced by heat and whiteness bursting on the insides of her eyelids. "Loki," she begged, moving a hand up to his coal-black hair once more. When she gripped the thick strands, he made a low sound, and plunged his finger in deeper, getting a desperate sob.

His hand took up a leisurely pace, in and out, slow and hard. Y/N's hips moved with him, driving him deeper, every nerve in her possession coiling tight as a spring.

It didn't take long for relief to barrel down her spine, a startling, throbbing, writhing few seconds of nothing but light. 

She's laying on the sun, surrounded by lapping, licking tongues of fire.

Vaguely, as she came down from it, Y/N heard Loki groan with need at the sight of her, the feel of her pleasure clenching about his fingers. He's covered in colours---sky blues, apple pink, corn yellow---and for a moment she thinks they're those same light from behind her eyes; but they're not. The table below her is covered in pigment, and she'd transferred some to her prince's china-cup skin as she'd clung to him.

Hard as granite, cheeks flushed, Loki drew his hand to his mouth and sucked at the sweetness there. When he spoke---voice cracking, half-starved---Y/N sparkled on his flushed lips. "Can I?"

"I've never wanted something more in my entire life."

She'd never seen a man move so fast, then; all of him standing to his full height, a swift grappling with the tie at his trousers, the soft sound of clothes hitting the floor.

And then he's naked except for a grin, muscles creating small hills, bones making smooth angles, the two clean-cut lines at his pelvis dragging Y/N's eyes proudly downwards.

Her abdomen coiled at the size of him. There's so much---

but she wants every inch, she's hungry for it, for him to fill her, and she swallowed, his eyes watching the bob of her throat and crinkling with a smile.

"I don't think _I've_ ever _loved_ something so much in my entire life." He prowled back to her, falling to his knees to kiss her lips, her head cupped in the spread of his palms. They're warm, all of him is warm, and she wondered if he minds---

Probably not. He doesn't seem to. It's as though he's trying to consume it---Y/N's heat---with his hungry, searching mouth, ravenous, eager hands, eating it up with his violently sensitive skin.

Y/N wanted him to feel what she'd felt, that unbridled joy, the delight of being touched by another so intimately. So she moved against him, the silken length of him solid as against her belly.

His answering cry broke as it crashed into her mouth.

She needs him.

Now, forever.

How will she ever let him go?

Y/N tried to tug Loki deeper into the comfort of her thighs, but he broke their kiss with a choked:

"Wait."

He sounded like he needed to clear his throat; the word a sooty whisper of smoke.

Before Y/N could open her mouth, Loki stood back, scooping her up, and spun them around so the backs of his legs pressed into the table. "I want you to be on top."

She understood why he wanted this position. Not just because he doesn't want to feel as though he's pressuring Y/N into anything but because he wants to feel wanted. He wants to know that she wants this, wants him, that someone wants him.

Smiling, Y/N took Loki's forearms, easing him down onto the table, the wood grain's rich russet setting his skin aglow.

Loki let her, the dip of his paint-stained stomach rising and falling with his quickened breaths, watching as she arranged herself over his hips.

The grin he's giving her is wide, and she can feel his delight like summer sun on her face.

_I've never known love before._

_Why deprive yourself of it while it's right here?_

Y/N pushed him into her, all of him, all at once, and Loki arched up, his groan loud enough to level the mountains. 

Perhaps it _had_ levelled the mountains, the way the very ground seemed to quiver.

Y/N paused, settling herself, and her rainbow-coloured prince panted below her, opening his closed eyes enough to give her a sloppy, love-sick grin. Drunkenly, he reached up with a paint-stained hand.

The circle he drew over Y/N's heart matched his own.

His fit is so deep with her weight. He's touching Y/N's soul, sending ripples down it as she tentatively shifts her hips in a minute, grinding circle.

Thank the gods Loki has his own corner of the palace.


	33. Chapter 33

It was Loki who suggested they bathe, the words more tactile than audible, a deep sort of rumbling of letters against Y/N’s throat as he held her.

Lazy and sated, Y/N wondered how she would manage to tease the paint from her hair in the washroom sink. Perhaps fill it, and tip her head forwards?

As if reading her thoughts, Loki added: “You’ll bathe in the bath with me, of course.”

…

Y/N stood on the lip of the bath as she watched a pool grow in the centre of it, crystalline water pouring forth from the heavy taps, distorting the delicate little tiles. She’s still unclothed, and felt her skin tighten as spray nipped at her skin. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t mind if shards of _ice_ were mingled with the frigid water, so long as she got to enter this glorious lido-like bath.

Loki had carried her to his washroom, and then gone to fetch her dress from the studio and fresh clothes for himself.

A thick cord hung by the door, and he tugged it upon his return.

Somewhere in the distance, Y/N knew a bell had jingled.

She pictured her peers back down in the bowels of the palace scurrying about, sparking fires under swelled boilers, or re-directing the pipes, or how ever it all worked.

Guilt nibbled before she could give the subject any more thought, turning her curiosity an ugly colour.

She quickly tried to think of something else.

It took a few moments for the water to shift from crisp glacial-runoff to seething boiling liquid. It hissed as it met the water already in the tub, mixing to form a comfortable temperature somewhere between that of steaming apple tea and a good meal.

Y/N turned to Loki, who was crouched by the taps, scenting the water with oils as it gushed from the pipes. Steam began to rise, moist and fragrant. “You’re making the bath warm,” she stated, sort of a question, sort of not.

The hard blades of his shoulders shifted about his back as he took another miniature bottle and tipped the contents into the bath. They were little rocks, like chunks of table salt, but pink as blossom and weighed down by the strong, sultry musk of rose oil. “Of course.”

“But won’t it hurt you?” Y/N asked worriedly.

Loki stood, and came up behind her, looping his long arms about her middle. He’s still half-hard, having never fully settled down to begin with, and becomes more so as his hips meet Y/N’s back. He dips his head to mouth at her ear. "I'd walk through flames for you, my love."

Y/N leant back into him, cheeks red from his touch, his sentiment and the humid air. “Well then, I’d brave blizzards for _you,_ my prince.”

A laugh rolls through him, and Y/N’s lips widen with a grin.

There’s something exciting about standing here, naked.

She’s not supposed to be naked here. She’s not really supposed to be naked anywhere; even when showering in the servant’s washroom Y/N scrubs a sponge over herself as quickly as possible, itching to retreat back into some form of clothing.

She would have been nervous about being naked here, now, but Loki is naked too and she liked the crackling sparks their nerves make when they touch. She couldn’t feel it before, when she’d kissed him wearing her lovely green dress, or her stiff grey uniform.

And, if Y/N thinks about it, she’s not _completely_ naked; not really. Paint still clings to her, cracked and drying, shrouding her like the finest, most delicate wisps of satin.

She feels Loki rub a gold scuff of it at the ridge of her hipbone, the nail of his thumb pushing away the flaking crumbs. They fall into the bathwater, eaten up by the swelling mounds of foam.

…

When Y/N eased herself into the sweet water, the foam swallowed her too, engulfing her bare shoulders. She melted into it---the clean, mellow embrace of the water---flecked with spice, letting the warmth and scent come right up to tickle her chin.

 _‘I shouldn’t be in here,’_ she’d thought, half wondering whether the bathwater would somehow know that, the oils merging to create greasy hands that’ll tug her to the bottom and drown her like the imposter that she is.

They didn’t though. They ran over her skin, slick and smooth, caressing it, soothing it like a lover.

Y/N regarded _her_ lover carefully as he joined her, checking for a wince of discomfort, a flinch of pain as the heat bit into him, but---thankfully---Loki’s expression remained serene and untroubled.

He sank below the surface momentarily, submerging himself right to the crown of his head. When he rose, the gold pigment matted into his hair had liquified, merging with the infinite darkness like comets streaking a night’s sky.

“I was thinking...” he said, feeling out the protruding edge of the bath’s walls that makes a simple seat. He found it and sprawled there, taking Y/N’s waist and easing her onto his lap.

She straddled the steady strength of his thighs, letting her shoulders easing back to settle into the curve of his lanky figure. A smile tugged the corner of her lip. “That’s worrying.”

His chuckle sent ripples out across the water, a physical manifestation of something usually invisible. “No, it's just...it’s curious how I can be so sad and yet so happy all at the same time.”

Y/N felt the tender pads of his lips pressing a soft kiss to the side of her neck. It wasn't even a kiss, really, it was more like he was just holding them against her, feeling her pulse thrumming tiredly beneath his touch. This is a new tired, a wonderful tired that has come from doing nothing really at all. “I was thinking the same thing yesterday.”

Her prince has started rubbing slow patterns over her ribs, climbing them, one, then the next, then the next. He takes one of her breasts in one hand, and splays the other at her belly.

Automatically, Y/N spreads herself open to him, her head falling back to rest on his shoulder.

The hand at her stomach gave the softness there a small squeeze. “I like this a lot,” he purred, setting her spine vibrating. She feels his smirk, the hard wedges of his teeth against her skin. “I used to worry if I touched you you’d crumple like a pigeon’s egg.”

Y/N bit her tongue about Alfdis and herself sometimes having the same concerns about him. “I _felt_ like a pigeon’s egg sometimes,” Y/N confessed. When the hours were long and the morning cold, and her breakfast nothing but a dry round of rye, she’d often wondered whether a strong gust of wind would be enough to whip her out to sea.

“There’s so much blasted gold in this fucking palace and yet its employees are living off grains,” Loki growled, clearly nettled---yet his touch remained so gentle.

He’s massaging her, sort of playing with her, teasing her, enjoying her, and Y/N is finding it hard to catch his words through her contented haze.

“When I was a very small child, I tried to snap a finger off a golden statue of my great grandfather."

Y/N listened, his youth always having been an oddity to her. If _she_ told _him_ about _her_ childhood, the word 'gold' wouldn't be mentioned at all---unless to perhaps describe the cornfield Y/N and her friends would chase each other through, ducking below the waving ears if they heard a shout from the farmer.

"I’d planned to give it to a maid I’d seen stoking the fire in my father’s chambers. She was covered in soot but I knew her hair was grey underneath it all, and she walked stooped over. I’d hoped she could use it to retire comfortably, but I wasn’t strong enough to break it.”

“What happened to her?” Y/N asked, trying to ignore Loki’s hands and their stroking. His description didn’t match to anyone Y/N had seen in the mess hall, and her heart sank as he confirmed her suspicions:

“I think she passed away. I swore that if ever the throne somehow fell to me---Odin please forbid it---I’d have all those useless trinkets melted down and handed around the kingdom.” He kissed her neck, properly this time, parting his jaw so that his tongue could lap at a pulse point.

Y/N hummed. Distractedly: "You don't want to be king?"

"No. I'm sick of niceties and duties and not being able to go into town, or walk along the docks. I can't go _where_ I please _when_ I please. Marry whom I please. It's like living in a painting."

Y/N has seen Loki's paintings, and didn't think that sounded too bad. Although, who knows, perhaps being surrounded by vibrant colour would make your eyes ache after a while.

“If I _was_ king, though," he said absently, "I guess I could rule the kingdom _my_ way. Get rid of some of the niceties, some of the gold. Like the palace walls. They’re marble, mostly, underneath it all. We could peel some off with a cheese grater and hand it around.”

“‘We’?”

“Well, yes. If the throne was mine, you would rule beside me.” A rough scrape of his teeth at her throat, his hand thoroughly enjoying the softness of Y/N's breast. The palm at her belly slipped down to play softly with that ache between her legs. “Or on top of me.”

She pushed against his touch, against _him_ , and his voice was rough as he muttered:

“Or _under_ me.”

Loki took her hips as if to lift her, but Y/N eased herself from his lap instead, moving next to him and slotting herself neatly under his arm.

“You’ve touched me already,” she said, surprised at the low, sultry tone of her own voice.

Loki opened his mouth as if to object, but closed it again as Y/N’s palm met his stomach.

“It’s your go.”

He remained still as Y/N’s hand wandered down, farther, following taught, coiled muscles until she met with the impressive length of him.

Loki hissed at the touch. It tasted nice as she kissed him, finding his mouth already open, wide and desperate and ravenous.

Y/N felt him lift his hips in an attempt to push deeper into her grip, but she moved her hand with him, swallowing his tormented whine. “How does your own medicine taste?” she asked, sliding the warm pad of her thumb teasingly over his silken skin, ever so softly.

He chuckled---but shakily---one of his hands desperately clutching the tiled lip of the bath _._ “Y/N... _please_ \---”

How could she resist that?

Heeding him, so slowly, Y/N stroked down to the base of his erection, then back up, right to the painfully sensitive tip.

Loki's smirk turned into a breathless little sob.

...

Before he came, Loki mustered all his strength to push Y/N against the smooth edge of the bath, using one let to nudge her knees apart. She let him eagerly, just seeing and hearing his pleasure having ignited that ache in her midsection all over again. He took her there in the frothy water, the echoes ricochetting off the curved walls.

Afterwards, Loki sponged the paint still scarring Y/N’s back with long, gentle strokes. She aided him too, when he offered his shoulders to her, and she lovingly rubbed away each scuff of colour he’d gained when she’d rode him on the table. He loosened as though it felt good, and moaned shamelessly when she washed his hair, the blackness of it wound about her fingers as though she’s kneading the night.

The bath had cooled by the time they were more or less clean, and Loki gave Y/N a plush towel to dry herself with. She couldn’t help glancing at Loki’s lean powerful form as he tended to his own dampness, his skin glistening white---besides a few remaining patches of cornflower blue.

The patches are light, as though shrouded, like the summer sky through a pale cloud. No matter how many times she’d run over them with the sea sponge, Y/N hadn’t managed to shift the stubborn pigment---but she guessed it didn’t matter. If they hadn’t come off in the water, she doubted they’d stain his clothing.

And, after all, they are quite pretty.

...

That evening, Y/N tucked her freshly-washed hair up into the tightest bun she could muster, adding several more pins than necessary just to make sure it’s new lustre and sheen wouldn’t escape and give her away.

She also feared someone might notice the lingering scent of oils and spices from her bath, and had a lie ready---something about the prince insisting she fragrance the water she mops his floors with---but no one asked. They were all too busy with their own lives, wrapped up in endless to-do lists and racing against time to finish their tasks before they have to go to sleep, then do them all over again.

Y/N will be one of them once more, come spring.

She shoved that thought aside.

…

Several weeks slipped by, and Autumn eased into winter, although it’s difficult to tell. The air remains warm enough, although the sun is often swamped in swollen clouds.

Y/N had been correct, Loki hadn’t started a new painting, and now there is insufficient time for that to change. Little did it matter, though; their new activities proved much more amusing.

Each morning, Loki greets Y/N with a long kiss, which sometimes leads to him scooping her up and carrying her to one corner of his chambers or another.

He has taken her on every chaise lounge, every sofa, every rug---even the thick bearskin by the fireplace. Together, they’ll spread out throws and heap pillows like a nest on the hard floor, or they’ll tug the heavy curtains behind Y/N’s back so Loki can take her against the wall.

The only place he has not taken her is the bed.

“When we make love in a bed, Y/N,” he’d promised into her ear when she’s asked him about it, “I want it to be _ours_.”

They draw together, they clean together, they cook small meals together. When the light begins to drain from the sky they curl up in a chair and light wax sticks so that Loki may read to Y/N from the numerous leather-bound volumes lining each wall.

In reality, they may be contained in the palace, in these rooms, but each book took them on adventures far beyond The Bifrost.

Loki was reading to Y/N from a squat little pocketbook one day, when he stopped, the sentence he’d been on fading out as though it had run out of momentum.

Earlier, he had made Y/N a hot cocoa drink, a recipe he’d learnt from his dear mother, and it was the most wonderful thing Y/N had ever tasted. She drew the mug away from her lips now and frowned.

“Why have you stopped?”

It took a few moments for Loki to reply, his pale hand rubbing a sun-yellowed page through finger and thumb. His voice came from just behind Y/N’s head, the syllables getting caught in her tumbled-down hair. “What if we went somewhere else tomorrow?”

“What? You mean sit in the study rather than the lounge?” Y/N asked, thinking about it. “There’s no chairs large enough for the both of us, but I guess---”

“No,” Loki interrupted gently. “I meant...why don’t we go somewhere else in the palace?”

Y/N’s most recent gulp of cocoa rose a little in her throat, singing it, the burn sickly sweet. “Loki, you know why we can’t do that. What if we’re seen together? Best case scenario; I’ll be let go---without a reference---due to misconduct. Worst case: imprisonment.”

“I won’t let any harm come to you or your position.” He said it so firmly, pressing the words into Y/N’s palm so resolutely she almost believed he had the power to make them true.

Almost. And: “What about _yours?”_

“I’m leaving soon anyway. And uniting two war-scarred kingdoms; I could probably light Father’s beard on fire and get forgiven within a week. People who used to think me not even half my brother are now treating me like a king.”

Y/N knew his brows had furrowed with a frown.

“It’s almost unnerving.”

“Even so, they wouldn’t let us keep seeing each other, would they? You’re engaged, and I’m---”

Y/N didn’t know how to finish that. She doesn’t know what she is anymore. Her days are spent in luxury, surrounded by the lavish affection of her prince---and her nights are spent on a straw-stuffed mattress in a shared room, carbolic soap and the burnt tang of cheap animal fat wax sticks muggy in the stuffy air.

Half of Y/N’s life is below the world, and the other half high above it. Why can’t it be somewhere in the middle? _On_ the world, amongst regular folks like Aasta, and Frode, and the strangers wriggling down the crowded market pathways like ants through a crack in a flagstone.

Y/N’s sure _they_ don’t have to worry about their sweetheart being used to bring peace to two kingdoms. And she doubts any of them have fobbed off work to repeatedly fuck one of The---very much engaged---Royal Sons. All _they_ \---the common people, the people in the _real_ world---have to worry about is selling produce before it spoils, and selling _enough_ of it to keep food on the table.

“We could go somewhere where even the guards aren’t allowed.” Loki broke Y/N’s stupor. “Father’s relic room. It’s not hugely interesting, but it’s a change of pace.”

Y/N placed her mug on a nearby cabinet and wriggled around in Loki’s arms, pushing herself up over him to give his lips a long kiss. “Am I failing to amuse you, my prince?” She smirked, and Loki returned it, licking up the cocoa she'd left on his lips.

“Quite the contrary.” His cool finger looped under her chin and tugged her back for another kiss. “I’m just sick of these blasted rooms. Surely you must be too? Every other lover int he nine realms is treating his beau to fine meals and walks under the sunset---what am I doing?”

Y/N wanted to reassure him, but, at the same time, she's not sure she has the heart to correct his romantic view of the world. Real-life isn’t much like the stories Loki reads to her, but _he_ is.

“Loki, you've already given me more than anyone else ever could. And we do all those things in here. Well, some of them." She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Tomorrow evening we could travel from one end of your chambers to the other and _call_ it a sunset walk, if you like. The gods know the distance is far enough to qualify as one.”

Loki's mouth curved with a single-syllabled chuckle, but he still brushed aside Y/N's suggestion. “I've been thinking about it, the relics room. It could work. We’d have to keep out of the guard’s sight, but once we’re there we will be alone.”

Admittedly, the idea of seeing more of the palace was hard to resist. Y/N’s desire to explore tugged at her---and Loki talked about the relics as though they are no particular point of interest, but for Y/N they were the stuff of legend.

And she liked the idea of sneaking to them, hunting out treasures, just like the character in their book they were reading.

But the character in their book is courageous and brave, and if he’s caught int a tough spot, Y/N knows he’ll find a way to wriggle out of it. Every book in the series has ended happily, but Y/N isn’t sure that her and Loki’s book will.

“Only royalty is allowed in the relics room, and my family rarely have a need to go down there,” Loki assured. He softly pried Y/N’s bottom lip from between her teeth.

She hadn’t even realised she was gnawing it.

“No one should disturb us. It’s not a romantic walk under the colours of dusk, granted, but it’s an adventure. Sort of.”

A crease formed between Y/N’s brows. “If only royalty is allowed in, why should _I_ be allowed?”

Loki kissed the corner of her mouth, and said against her lips: “If we'd have wed, you would be royalty."

Y/N couldn’t fathom that.

…

And so it was settled. The next day, Y/N and Loki would wait until the soothing cloak of afternoon, then creep from his rooms and down to the relics room.

Despite the risk, Y/N too is eager for the change of pace, so much so her fizzing nerves woke her unnecessarily early. She bolted her breakfast---sketching with one hand and spooning oats into her mouth with the other---and was following the hill down to the market before the sun had properly dragged itself into the sky. She purchased a clean sketchbook and some fresh charcoals, then collected her usual sweet treats from Aasta.

The baker’s eyes are like the gentle barn owl’s that used to roost in the rafters of her old village hall, Y/N often thinks. Both Aasta and the owl would look at Y/N like they know things, as if they can see straight through her skull and are casually reading the thoughts off her brain. She’s sure Aasta knew exactly what she’s about to do; Y/N could have sworn that _‘be careful’ was_ laced into the baker's otherwise good-natured _‘See you tomorrow, pet’._

When Y/N arrived at Loki’s chambers, his hair was wiry from his slim fingers raking through it, and he gave her a wobbly smile.

He made sure the door was closed, then kissed her. “We don’t have to go to the relics room if you don’t want to,” he said as he parted to take in a breath. “I think I was just scared last night; the wind rattled the window and it reminded me just how short winters are---I wanted to _do_ something, so all my memories of our time together don’t merge into one.”

Y/N ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it, and he leant into the touch. It’s getting longer, a small braid Y/N twisted into it the other day still fastened with a coil of ropey twine. She wondered if the Allfather and Frigga and his brother Thor had asked why he’d started wearing knots in his hair.

They probably hadn’t.

“I want to,” Y/N assured, sharing his sentiment. She smiled a proper smile, much more sturdy than his own. “It’ll be an adventure.”


End file.
